


Essere..

by PastaPotatoes



Series: Essere [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Brotherly Angst, Cheating, Child Death, Denial, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotionally Repressed, Implied Mpreg, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Multi, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Out of Character, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-09-19 21:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 47,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20319079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PastaPotatoes/pseuds/PastaPotatoes
Summary: //It was a spectacular explosion from the normally cheerful, albeit dumb, naive Northern Italy that never seemed to harbor such anger. A true one sided Italian Civil War in the middle of a conference that ended in the younger storming out. //Cascade: A process whereby something, typically information or knowledge, is successfully passed on.All it took was two nations acting selfishly to cause a cascade of problems that neither nation could fix.Alternatively: One nation comes across the perfect opportunity to confess his love, whether the other wants it or not.





	1. Inutili

**Author's Note:**

> Present ships: [Abusive!Rusita] [Germano] [Spamano]  
Implied ships: One-sided [Pruita] [FrUK]  
Past ships/referenced ships: [Gerita]  
If there are more, I will mention them here later.  
Word of warning: This story is far different than my other story. If you read the other, please be warned that this is more graphic. I’m putting as many trigger warnings as possible, even though it’s not incredibly detailed to be on the safe side. 
> 
> Trigger warning: Torture, non-consent activities, implied rape, etc.
> 
> Viewer discretion is advised

Blankets greeted him before the coldness had. His body unconsciously stretched, taking in the silky blanket beneath him as something wet dripped down his face. He pulled up his aching legs, pushing them up in a vain attempt to cover himself, shielding him from the cold that seemed to coat his body. The clanking of metal stopped as soon as his legs stopped moving. 

Cold metal was clung to his bare ankle, he recognized. Chain? His eyes couldn't pick it up through the blurriness. His eyes scanned the room once his drowsiness had begun to fade, but it was small, unrecognizable to the nation, even through the blurry vision. There were shapes indicating a long set of stairs had connected to a door of some kind. Shapes of perhaps a table and chair set, a small bookshelf, and a small drawer briefly caught his eye, but without detail, it was otherwise unremarkable. 

Basement, it was equivalent to a small basement. He brought his hands to his eyes, rubbing them in an attempt to end the blurriness that invaded his vision. 

A wetness touched his hand. It was thicker than water. He unconsciously brushed off the unknown wetness before he quickly removed his hand, flinching as pain radiated from the spot.

His heart stopped, his breath hitching as coldness filled his chest. He frantically gave himself a look over, unconsciously trying to grab a shirt that was not there. Realization filled his heart, his vision becoming more blurry than before through tears. 

He was at home before, he  _ used _ to be at home- he wasn't now. He wasn't anymore, and he had absolutely nothing on. It was quite normal for him to not wear clothes. It was normal for him to strip before he fell asleep. He had clothes on before- he was positive, as he couldn't bring himself to strip like that anymore. 

His heart pounded as he curled inwards, shivering. There was a distinct  **wrongness** , and that terrified the nation. Memory of hours, maybe days ago, was lifted from what seemed like oblivion. His stomach churned at the memories, silently cursing at himself while doing so. 

He was freezing in a small room, feeling even more defenseless than ever before, chained to what, he didn't know. He shouldn't be upset over that incident right now. 

That didn't stop the bubble of emotions from rising in his throat again just like before. That didn't stop him from blaming himself for this predicament, either. 

Now he was stuck wherever he was, and it was his own, stupid, fault. 

_ _ _ “Italie, please answer!” Italy perked up briefly. France’s voice had been wavering as he rapped on the door. Italy slumped down, his head hung lower than normal. ‘It’s Big Brother France, please..”  _

_ _ _ He never answered, of course. Instead he chose to cover his ears with his hands. His heart pounded in his chest at the confliction. He wanted to turn to France, he did, but his legs kept him down and his voice refused to answer.  _

_ _ _ “Italie…s'il vous plaît..”  _

He covered his ears, curling in deeper into the bed that was decidedly not his. He couldn't remove France's voice still from his head. He couldn't erase the look he was given no matter how hard he tried to by Spain. 

Oh God, how many countries did he hurt? 

_ Despite this, he tried to ignore his cracking voice. Ignore the bombardments of worried pleas from multiple fronts. He continually chose to keep himself barred in one of his homes given to him that he hadn't shared with his eldest brother purposely, door firmly locked, lights off as the curtains shut out the world.  _

_ _ It was almost like a haven of sorts. A haven away from them. 

He felt a heaviness at the time, bubbling from his mouth like  **poison** that was ready to spill. It came from the very center of his being and it grew hotter the more he thought of it before it was cooled down by a more familiar emotion. Both came and went in regular cycles when he dared to think those thoughts, which became more and more regular at the time. 

_ Did they notice? Would they notice? Should he have- _ He stopped himself. It hurt, but he forced himself to push down those poisonous thoughts. 

Never that  **poison** again, it didn't feel right. Those emotions didn't sit right with him and he didn't like it. He didn't like what it made him think, do, or  _ wish _ to do. This is why he didn't allow himself to feel that again, never again. When his thoughts cleared, he had already shut himself off voluntarily from the world without he himself even comprehending what he had done and unfortunately put himself in this position.

He was  **pathetic** . He truly was. Couldn't even get his own emotions right without putting himself into harm's way. He twisted around before sitting up fully. With a touch of the face, he realized he was crying more than before as he tried endlessly wiping them off to no avail. He didn't know what these worsening tears were caused by anymore; past or present. 

He didn't know if that mattered at this point, either. 

An oddly familiar sound of hard footsteps from overhead had caused the captured nation to flinch, his eyes drifting to the ceiling briefly before locking onto the one door as they grew closer. He unconsciously pushed himself back against the even colder wall.

New light peeked from behind the door, blinding, all things considered. It revealed a tall figure, familiar to him all too well. 

"Ve?! .. _ Russia _ ?" He squeaked out, his eyes wandered to meet his. The other's bright purple ones did not do the same. "Ru-Russia!?  _ Perché sono qui?!" _ Hope bubbled in his chest before it dissolved the moment his mind registered what was going on.

His skin crawled. His mind didn't need to tell him what he was doing, no. He simply felt those eyes looking him over. He watched the Russian's smile grows as his heart began to pound. 

Russia didn't miss a single beat as he watched Italy push away from him, but his chain length tether wasn't long enough to allow for that. 

He was stuck. His breath hitching as his hands pulled the chain, tugging desperately even as the realization dawned on him. This only amused the bigger nation. 

"Its adorable seeing you flail like that." The Russian stopped his descent down the steps for a brief moment as he raised a brow at the other, squirming, nation. His attention turned back to Russia, dropping the chain nearly instantly as he froze. His smile dropped just as fast as Italy's chains did. "You'll simply tire yourself. Stop that."

"Why am I here?" Italy repeated shakily as his body became rigid, his legs refused to move from his glued position.

Russia didn't answer at first, descending until he reached the bottom fully before he chose to do so. "You were alone when I found you. I was afraid you would have had company. " He tilted his head before continuing, his face twisted with confusion. "That was...odd. I have rarely caught you alone. You don’t seem to be a nation longing for solitude."

He flinched at that, removing his gaze from the Russian towards the floor instead. "Perhaps it was for the best, da."

"Eh?!" His eyes automatically snapped back towards the approaching nation. Russia paused, studying the Italian for a moment. The startled nation shrunk back, his back nearly hitting the bed’s wooden headboard.

He smiled again. Italy couldn’t hide the shiver he got from it. 

Russia giggled before answering, startling the Italian further after an uncomfortable pause. "You know, it's odd. I never had..a crush before. Feeling love is not common for me." The Russian stared, his eyes never straying from him, taking in his somewhat defensive form. He approached carefully, cautiously before he sat down. "I never had a nation manage to make my heart pound as much as you had done. My heart stayed in place for you. I didn't understand it." 

He squeaked as Russia's hand harshly pulled him away the edge, pushing him down when he was far enough away from the headboard. His head hitting the bed roughly, igniting the ache in the process. His arms shot up in an attempt to quell the burning ache, but were quickly thwarted by the Russian. 

" _ C-Che cosa? _ " 

Russia winced as the Italian whimpered. 

" _ Sozhaleyu, Moya Italiya. _ I forgot that I hurt you as much as I did before you got here. I didn't intend to hit you so hard." 

His eyes widened briefly at the confession. The honesty took him by surprise. 

_ Clicking, rattling, and turning. He turned, eyes locked on the don't as he could still hear the rattling of the knob ring through his ears until it came to a deafening halt. The soft metal sound as the knob broke off, rolling down on the floor.  _

_ _ _ The rhythmic pounding of his heart in his ears as he saw a person push past the door. His thoughts twisting into screams of warning. His wish for a back door for an exit falling silent. _

_ _ _ His shaky recollection of being knocked on the floor of his kitchen, his even shaker recollection of what happened afterwards.  _

_ _ _ Something told him it was best to not remember that, though.  _

"I was not expecting a struggle to occur. " He flinched at the touch of Russia's hands on his wound. The Russian frowned momentarily, removing his hand. There was a moment, a pause. "It was..a pleasant surprise"

Something told him he meant that. He gave the Italian a smile. He wished he hadn't. 

"You're a coward. A white flag wielding coward." He looked away before continuing. "You never used to want to be alone. Always having at least one nation around for comfort. I don't understand. "

Another pause, his hand unconsciously rubbed against the smaller nation's petite hand, turning towards him more than before. 

"I didn't understand why it was you that made me feel like that, " His voice softened before placing his hand on his leg, traveling up, tracing him. He shuddered at the sensation, but the other nation either didn't notice or care enough to stop. "The more I thought about you, the more I wanted you. The more I wanted you to become one with me. "

The weight intensified on him. A hand covered his eyes, pushing down on him only barely missing his injury in the process. "I didn't understand, but the more I saw you, saw how you looked at  _ Germaniya _ , saw how he made you.."

His face grew pale, his eyes tearing again before he recognized the wetness. He couldn't see, but he didn't need vision to see it. 

He could practically feel the pressure, the very chill that Russia's aura was famous for crushing his chest.

"You don't know how angry you made me,  _ Moya Italiya. _ " 

The statement was met with a wavering cry, his face flushed as he made another attempt at getting him off, but all he could do was squirm as his body uncontrollably felt different, flushed. The hand had a firm grip on his curl while still managing to cover his eyes. His legs pinned down by the other nation. He tried in vain to remove the hand covering his eyes, but he was an artist, not a fighter. He couldn’t move the hand. 

"P-please,  _ per favore _ !" His voice cracked as he struggled. The Russian had continued tracing as Italy shivered beneath each touch as he very nearly sat on the smaller nation, but he released the curl. 

The Italian choked back a sob that changed into small, continued sniffles and whimpers. "I'm not angry anymore, I promise you, I'm no longer angry with you. " His voice turned oddly soft again. "I let go of that anger a while ago.”

His breath seemed to slow down again, his heart didn't pound as much. It still felt  **wrong-** that  **wrongness** crawling up his leg. That  **wrongness** in his voice.

Yet he was at ease, at least,  _ more _ at ease than before. 

"I was, but how can I when I know you  _ need _ me?" Those were quiet words, very close to unhearable. Another shudder, another whimper. "You must have been lonely- you must be lonely. You have been for such a long time, haven't you? I understand feeling alone, even in a room full of people, I feel alone. "

That caught him off guard. Hearing no protests, he continued. "You aren’t meant to be alone,  _ Moya Italiya _ . You were never meant to be alone." Italy squirmed as he felt the other man's face on the nape of his neck, pressing, very nearly biting him. "Who would abandon someone like you? Who would  _ cheat _ on someone like you?" 

The crushed nation stopped squirming automatically, his chest felt frozen beneath the bigger nation. 

_ "Sono stanco di difenderti!" Italy never felt himself balling his fist, nor the shaking sensation that accompanied each word. The silence surrounding the other nations was deafening, but he felt that  _ ** _poisonous_ ** _ feeling, that  _ ** _resentment_ ** _ , pour out his mouth before he quite noticed it himself. He couldn't even see Romano at that moment, even when his eyes were locked on him. "Sono stanco di entrambe le tue bugie! Sono stanco di provare ad essere gentile con te! Sono stanco di te!" _

He just wanted to...He pushed the word away. He didn't want to think that word.

_ Germany had decidedly been distant once more, and all he wanted was to see his brother that day. _

_ _ _ Italy had received an email, a forwarded email from his Boss informing him of an assignment. His brother had sent another crude, one line email, quitting the assignment. * It still needed to be done, even if it meant Italy had to do it instead.  _

_ _ _ "Doitsu, Mi dispiace! Boss wanted me in again. Fratello quit again. " Italy laughed sheepishly as he hugged the German. Germany sighed, shaking his head. He smiled at that, despite hurt creeping into his chest. To someone that didn’t know the German, it would’ve come across as normal.  _

_ _ _ “Very well, auf wiedersehen.” It was distant to Italy though.  _

_ _ _ ‘Ciao!" _

_ _ _ He had done shared work long enough that, though tiring, it wasn't difficult. Though, it was long. It surprised him to see that he was done so early.  _

_ _ _ He thought back to a relatively small, new store that he had passed on the way that caught his attention. It wasn't a store he would have been drawn to if it wasn't for the display.  _

_ _ _ He wanted to give Romano that.  _

_ _ _ He had snuck home that day, trying to enter as quietly as he could. Although he was sure Romano was awake, he didn't want to walk into the house interrupting that with Spain again. The last time he had done so, it wasn't pleasant for either party.  _

_ _ _ Why couldn’t it have been in Spain? As soon as he closed the door, he heard words echoing from the room. At first, it was just Romano's rushed blur of both Italian and English.  _

_ _ _ He wasn't alone, though. Through the cracked door, he heard a familiar German accent. Familiar positions, familiar words. He backed off silently, like a coward, and ran.  _

"Why would someone want to cheat on someone like you?"

Italy didn't move despite feeling such whispered words drip down his neck. 

"You saw it, didn't you?" Something close to pity when the Russian talked. The Northern Italian didn't answer. 

He couldn't answer, he simply couldn't.

Yet, the sensation of wetness answered for him. Even with Russia's hands, he could trace the wetness as it fell down his cheek. His hand shook as he brushed against the other. 

".. _ perché _ ..?"

He felt that  **poisonous** emotion again-  **resentment** bubbling once more. It mixed almost instantly with another, familiar emotion. He squirmed again. Not even a hand as strong as Russia's could block out the pictures anymore than his own eyes could. 

He tried, he really did try to block out the memories. To remove that  **poisonous** feeling again, but the more he did, the more it kept pushing past and invading his thoughts. 

"You know it too, don't you?" The voice was so sweet, no matter how much it felt wrong. He gripped his hand as he heard the sounds again, haunting him when he heard them. "..If you became one with me, I would never abandon you. Never leave you like that."

"... _ perché _ ..?" He trembled again. To say that it hurt when he saw those thoughts invade, to see  _ those _ images of Romano and Germany in their shared bed that they had gotten together after unification, was an understatement. 

His heart swelled at his words, it was tempting. Wrong, but very tempting. 

He was a clueless nation, but he can catch a hint, even if he tried to ignore those hints. Tried ignoring the distance Germany set between them, tried blocking out the smiles Germany shared, directed at a screen later on at night when he thought he was asleep. 

He wanted to be wrong. There's only so many times you can ignore a cancellation. So many times you can ignore Prussia's pity stares that he couldn't shake off even when he tried. 

He definitely couldn't ignore seeing them together. 

He squeezed Russia's hand. His mind shifting back and forth for an answer, never settling. 

It was  **wrong** , it felt  **wrong** . 

If he felt the bigger nation shift, the warm clothing that he felt touch his cold legs before from the other nation, slip off, he didn't register it. 

The air was thick with a possessive aura that he, too, didn't register. 

**Wrong. Wrong.** So vehemently  **wrong** . 

His mind clouded as he felt the bigger nation hold onto his curl again after being met with silence His lose finger twirling it gently. He suddenly felt more weight shift: it felt heavier than before and nothing felt like it could move under the sheer weight. 

" _ Moya Italyia, _ what's wrong?" Such soft spoken words. Such dangerous words that screamed bad intentions, but he couldn't shake, couldn't squirm or move. "Don't you like it?"

**Wrong. Wrong. ** His mind flashed, but he couldn't focus. 

He gave a soft whine that resulted in the curl being pulled harder. 

"Don't you want to be with someone? To not be alone?" Annoyance laced his voice thickly this time. "..You don't, do you?" Hands gripped him everywhere, tugging at his tan skin. 

**Wrong** . 

"I.." He trembled as the other nation fiddled with his curl more and more. "..I .I.." His mind pleaded to stop, trying to stop his body from rubbing against the other nation.

"What was that?" It was a carefully worded demand that made the other wilt. 

" _ P-per favore _ ,  _ p-per favore _ ..p-please s-stop." His moaned pleas didn't dissuade Russia as he pressed down, causing his chest, neck and cheek in the process.

"Do you want to be abandoned again?" Russia nearly yelled words rang in his ears. ".. do you want to continue to be  **useless** ?"

His chest tightened. It was that word again. He felt like it attached itself to him no matter how hard he tried not to be  **useless** . 

He wasn’t  **useless** . He wasn’t. It didn’t matter how many times he heard hushed whispers from nations directed towards him calling him that, even if some were more well intended. It didn’t matter the stares he sometimes got or the groans from some nations when he spoke. 

It didn’t matter that he wasn’t the greatest at war. That didn’t make him  **useless** , though. 

He couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling that he was  **useless** . 

**Wrong** flashed in congruent with  **useless** . It was  **wrong** . It felt  **wrong** . 

He felt so  **useless** . It was  **wrong** , but he didn't want to feel  **useless** . He was  **useless** , no matter how  **wrong** this felt. No matter how  **wrong** his legs felt when they were traced by his hands. 

He felt  **wrong** . He wanted to be helpful. He just wanted to be  **useful** . Something told him he didn't want this, screaming it. 

The Northern Italian quietly whimpered. He couldn't say it, no matter how much his felt his mouth babble.

The Russian gave a dissatisfied hum. 

"I don't want you to be  **useless** ,  _ Moya Italyia _ ." His voice was calm, but he felt the aggravation that radiated from those words. "..even if  _ you _ want to be."

Dread shot down his spine. 

"I'll never let you be  **useless** ." 

He felt himself screaming, even as muffled as it was, before he could register the cause as his breath quickened. The Italian quickly realized what was going on as pain radiation from places he decidedly didn't want the Russian to touch. 

Italy clenched his eyes shut, behind the hand that Russia had placed on his eyes as his hands, while being battered inadvertently the process, clenched the blanket beneath him for dear life.

It was wrong, his mind vehemently agreed that it was wrong even when it had created a blurry concoction of thoughts and emotions. Each wave of uncontrollable pain accompanied by a push further added to the concoction. He felt his throat go hoarse from words that he didn't know he was pleading. With each unheard pleas, the quieter became until he went silent. 

He couldn't tell time, but he felt himself counting silently as the edges of his thoughts were eaten by exhaustion. Exhaustion ate at the corners of his mind in a fuzziness reminiscent of a dilapidated static tv. 

It wasn't surprising, he invited it to do so, that the static started eating more and more of his thoughts. 

There was no fight. His exhausted form couldn't be bothered anymore. 

By the time his thoughts returned, his body had begun to scream at him the moment Russia had lifted him up, pulling him into his arms gently. Pain and aches radiated from all over, but more so in his abdomen as an abnormal sensation of wetness dripped, crawling on his legs as it did so. 

His forehead was against something muscular, most likely Russia, but he couldn't see with his blurry vision anymore. His limp, broken body shuddered and shook as he buried himself into the warmth. The Russian didn't seem to care or notice that the man had dampened skin from God knows what as he cradled the broken individual. 

He heard that soft, sweet voice again whisper in his ear. " _ Mne zhal _ ', but you left me with no choice." He felt those same big hands that hurt him before, gently rubbing his back. New tears traced Italy's cheeks. His mouth attempted to formulate words, but nothing but babble came out. 

He felt dirty. Unclean. Undeserving.  _ Guilty _ . 

“I wanted better for you, even if I’m disappointed that you don’t for yourself. “ A wave of a familiar emotion drenched him as his heart dropped. 

He forced his mouth to speak, despite the nauseating feeling of  **wrongness** that accompanied it. “I’m..I’m sorry..” It was a muffled cry, more of a plea as he unconsciously pushed his head into Russia’s chest further. He didn’t know what he was apologizing to him, but he couldn’t control it, either. “I’m sorry.  _ Mi dispiace. _ .”

The Russian pulled his closer. He could smell mixtures of things that he decided to not want to think about, but felt..comforting despite everything. “I’m not angry, I could never get angry at you.” He felt a free hand rub his matted hair. “I could never be, I know you would never mean to.“

Silence permeated the air before he answered. "I wanted you to know you are  **useful** ." He paused, stopping the rubbing feeling against his back for a moment.

“ _ Mi dispiace..Mi dispiace.. _ ”

“I won’t ever abandon you,  _ Moya Italyia. _ ” He let his eyes drop, shaking with each plea before he allowed himself to stop. He felt his tired body get placed down on the dirty, tainted, ruined, bed, his head placed on a tainted pillow. "You’ll always be  **useful** to me.”

His eyes felt heavy. Dirty, he felt so dirty and  **wrong** . His form shaking as he felt himself get covered by the blanket. 

When he woke up again, a fresh plate of food was there. Italy looked towards the door hesitantly before looking back at the plate in front of him. An extra water bottle was set to the side for him. There a highly decorated note caught his eye at the back of his plate. 

He couldn’t help but feel so guilty, no matter how he felt towards the nation. He couldn’t place why anymore. He hesitantly ate the food provided. 

——

He hadn't shown up in a while, and neither did the guilty thoughts. He didn't know how long it was since the last time he visited; time seemed infinite down in his bleak abode, but with what little natural light that slunk through the boarded window (something he didn’t catch earlier), it must have been days, upwards of a week and a half. Sunlight disappeared for long lengths of time when he noticed it; moonlight was even rarer.

He missed the night, the stars that Nonno would point at so long ago and name, each with a story more detailed than the last, and the moon with its phases. He looked away from the window, his eyes downcast as he sighed. 

It made him miss things he wouldn't have otherwise. 

He missed  _ them _ most of all. Resentment or not, he missed the strong arms of his (was his) Germany that made him feel safe. He missed the awkwardness of Japan when he hugged him, and even the (relatively) loving curses of Romano. Even if every single moment of their relationship was a lie, despite as much  **resentment** as he had, he couldn't help but miss the countries. 

Then again, Italy couldn't be sure if he could look at them the same way anymore, or even at all without that  **poisonous** feeling that made him feel tainted. He briefly wondered what would've happened otherwise- the idea of perhaps being secluded for a while had been toyed with before he pushed out those thoughts. He didn't want to think about them anymore. He didn't want to think about anything anymore. 

It made him think too much, which in and of itself, was problematic to the Italian. With as much time as he had, with as little to do in that time, it worsened more than helped.

He fiddled with the chain that connected him to the room itself, twirling it absentmindedly with a frown. If he wasn’t pathetic, perhaps he could have escaped by now. Other nations managed to, only Italy didn’t seem to. Admittedly, these circumstances were different. 

Nations commonly fought; wars were commonplace. In Italy's case, they were more one-sided, but he knew that was the reality of war. 

There weren't implied, weighted, threats on his family or friends aside from the removal of pasta, of course. It was different from being sold after being conquered; it was sad, but commonplace, too. It was different from being captured in a battle.

He didn't want them hurt, no matter how angry he was. As  **abandoned** as he felt (or was  **abandoned** , he couldn't figure out those feelings, either) as  **useless** as he was, he didn't want them to hurt. 

That didn't stop his criticizing thoughts, though. 

The other nations would have found a way out by now, or at least they would be able to get to the shower. Italy sighed bitterly again, glaring at the aforementioned shower. It stared at him knowing that it was out of his reach by a long shot. The bathroom in general was so far away from him. He frowned further. That added insult to injury.

He groaned, collapsing on the bed before curling in. He ignored the screaming aches that roared to life when he collapsed as he felt his stomach turn over. Despite the (stale) bottled water that he saved from the last time he visited, barely enough to quench any thirst, it didn’t quell his stomach. 

Nations couldn’t die by normal means; they weren’t human, after all. That didn’t mean nations were impervious to starvation, even if it meant that it didn’t kill them. 

His stomach protested. He couldn't disagree with it, either. He wanted food, too. He pushed himself up a bit, glancing around the room more before landing on the area that best resembles a “kitchen", the small area with the table and chair set. Even if he could find something even remotely edible, if there had been food on that small table, across the room, the chain link tether wouldn't allow for it. He lowered himself once more, pushing up the tainted blanket as he done so.

He hoped he could sleep, even if sleep seemed to evade him recently. 

Footsteps again. Loud, powerful footsteps made his drowsy head lift from the pillow once more. He rubbed his eyes with a yawn, stretching out before he pushed himself up again, his eyes tracing the familiar ceiling once more. He frowned as he done so, a shiver running down his spine

His stomach churned as he pushed his nausea down. 

There were two more additional sets of footsteps. They were lighter ones that walked over head, even though one was stomping. 3 more appeared to follow the other two, only to quickly disappear as soon as they appeared. 

Ukraine and Belarus must be over. He searched his memory; Russia has never talked about family much during the meetings, he realized. If he had, the nation didn’t remember. He hadn't known them very well, only vaguely through their main trade (Ukraine) or through plain fear (Belarus) as they only met every so often, hardly by themselves. 

Soft conversation greeted him through the ceiling. Ukraine was talking about something- farming, he vaguely recalled as she scuttled about. Belarus had made some remarks here and there, but nothing too concrete. He swore he even heard the Russian gave a startled cry.

He smelled what they were doing almost immediately. 

The smell of cooking food wafted through to him eventually. His stomach churned worse than before. The smells intermingled with one another. He could very nearly tell each ingredient apart from one another. He felt himself straining to hear the conversation above his protesting stomach. 

He missed cooking and the food that he would make when he had done so. 

His fingers traced the wall above the headboard, contemplating if it was possible to get to the source of the food. 

The door opened and closed briefly. Quiet, yet hurried steps down the stairs were met with stares. His gaze followed the Russian’s movements, not bothering to hide his confusion as he held the very source of that smell permeated that wafted to him.

He had carefully placed the newly made food across the table near the ‘kitchen’ area of his room before he stared at the smaller nationed. A smile curling at the corners of his mouth. 

He still didn’t want to see that smile.

“...I’ll always make you useful to me.” He blinked. ‘You dissatisfied me earlier,  _ Moya Italyia _ . Even after all this time, I still can’t believe you don’t want to be  _ useful _ .” 

Russia sighed, looking at the table before looking back at him. “I would never intentionally hurt you, but it hurts that you want to be  **abandoned** no matter how hard I try. It hurts,  _ Moya Italyia _ .” He paused, frowning. “I need you to..prove yourself otherwise, or else I can’t let you eat the food my  _ sestry _ has made.”

Russia turned away, closing in on the stairs. He paused mid ascension, turning his head to the whimpering Italian. “You don’t have to tell me right away. I can tell you must not be hungry right now. “ 

He was left with a plate of food, so far away, yet so close. 

His thoughts, no matter how hard he tried to focus on the conversation that managed its way to him, were interrupted by hunger as he curled away from it desperately. 

Avoiding him was preferable. His aching body reminded him of what happened the last time he was near the nation for an extended period of time. The  **dirtiness** made his skin crawl, still.

Yet, food. He wanted food so much, even England's scones were preferable to nothing. 

"Do you want to eat?" He jumped at the sound. Italy peered up, slowly maneuvering himself to see him while doing so. 

He hadn't noticed him entering the room. 

The other nation tilted his head, ignoring his response to the question. He sat down, his hand on the same spot as it was before, tracing, lingering. "You must not be that hungry. If you were, then you would have answered." 

Italy gulped, shivering as he shook his head before he realized it. " _ Si _ !..I-I mean,  _ Mi dispiace,  _ I-I'm hungry." Russia rose a brow at this before he answered with a toothy grin. 

A tug, a pull and he was facing the bigger nation. He winced at the forcefulness of the gesture. He noted his position before removing those thoughts, trying to ignore the implications that they warned him of through the hunger. 

A familiar sensation of clothing hadn't been there, he noted. From the corner of his vision, he saw the missing clothing folded rather crudely. "You are starving, da?" Italy wearily eyed the (by now) cold food before hesitantly nodding. "I couldn't enjoy my time with my  _ sestry _ . I thought about my disappointment in you." 

He watched as the bigger nation eyed him. He pushed down the urge to shake from the way he eyed him. 

“We don’t have dinners like that frequently. It’s mean of you to take that from me.” Russia frowned before it changed back to a grin. “But  _ YA lyublyu tebya, Moya Italyia _ . I will let you make up for that."

He gave a motion. The Italian whimpered, his face scrunching when he had done so. "If you want to ever eat, I want you to prove that you want to be  **useful** . It's not hard, Italians are lovers, da. " Italy eyed him wearily, hesitating. 

It was beyond  **wrong** . He didn't want to touch  _ that _ , nonetheless in his  _ mouth _ . 

He was so hungry, though. Too hungry, and with Russia's paper thin patience, he reluctantly performed the act, only focusing on the words that were spoken instead of the  **dirtiness** that crept inside his mouth. 

He tried to ignore the meaning of those increasingly  **wrong** words as he performed, hoping they would disappear by the time he was finished. 

Even when he focused on the voice of the one that forced these acts, he couldn't ignore the feel of the  _ thing _ in his mouth, not the chokes he was forced to endure when he was forced to  _ push _ further than he could handle. 

When realization dawned on him that it was over, he felt water touch his dirty skin. Hands that were rough before were eerily gentle as they soaked his arms. He blinked as he felt conditioner slipping off his head. 

Bath, his tired form allowed those tiny touches to occur. He drowsily watched as the Russian clean him off using soaps that he hadn't felt against his skin for a long time. He couldn't protest, and he didn't. 

Despite feeling  **dirty** and had been littered with bruises, his body felt clean for the first time. 

When he lifted himself from the bed and Russia was, once again, gone, he glanced around the room. He quickly made note of the fresh new blanket that wrapped around him. It felt different than the original had been. His eyes then caught a new belongings in the room. There were books, more than he could count by simply looking sitting on the drawer with some care to them, lined by order, while there was a relatively tiny television set at the other end of the room. The clicker had been placed on top of the books. 

Above all else, there was a plate of food left on the drawer. 

He did not hesitate to eat the food that was given to him.

\--

The light from the door filled the room again. Italy's dazed eyes refused to avert his gaze from the light as the Russian had had began his descent down the stairs. He wasn't sure how many times he had visited since the first starvation attempt. With the light of the boarded window, once more, he counted the days that passed, giving him an estimation of about a month passed, with an average of 2 days wait in between each visit. Perhaps he visited more than that, as sometimes the moonlight wouldn’t be out yet and he would still appear, forcing a session for an extra treat (which he hungrily obliged, knowing that a session would occur regardless, only he would be left hungry) before he left for his capital for work. 

This was one of those days; sunlight fought to get to the room. Worry filled his features. He knew what would happen, as it always happens the same way every time, but the Italian couldn't force himself to stop tracking his movements as he came closer. 

Russia stopped, placing carefully a delicately wrapped gift in his hands before covering them with his own. Italy eyed it quizzically before removing the, admittedly, beautiful, wrapping. It was a golden wrapping with silver, elegant, sunflowers dancing across its wrapping. 

"I am..not so good at art." Italy couldn't help but smile at that. That felt familiar, something that he had craved since his first day in his ‘home’. The Russian sheepishly laughed, a blush coating his cheeks. "I..didn't realize there were..so many different papers." Ink, he noted as he touched the leather backing, finding a little bottle of ink and one of the fancier art pens wrapped in it. 

It was very thoughtful, considering everything. 

Italy hummed, tracing the very paper as he set each tool down. He didn't realize how much he missed the feel of the rougher paper beneath his fingers. He sighed with every trace. For just a moment, he felt safer. A little more protected from his trapped self. A little more free.

Italy sat the ink, the fancier art pen, and sketchbook down briefly on the drawer before turning to wrap the nation in a hug, ignoring his tired arms as he has done so. “Thank you, ve!” 

For the first time in a long time, he had something personal that reminded him of home. His mind didn’t catch up with him, allowing a moment of respite. 

Russia blinked at this, looking towards the nation with confusion lacing his features before hugging back. “I realized that..perhaps it’s rude to give you a home like this.” He put his chin on the top of the Italian’s head. ‘You’re other home was radiant, da? You must be bored.” 

That caught his interest. Italy didn’t try to detangle himself from the Russian, as he doubted he could even if he tried. He let out a soft ve. He could feel the Russian loosen up as he had done so. He didn't know how to answer that. Was this officially his home? 

He wondered if he would have to force himself to call this home one day. He briefly pondered the thought as Russia answered for him. 

"You don't have to answer," He started. "I think it's dull myself. It’s barely practical. Perhaps I can procure you more belongings to make this more of a home?” The Russian answered himself, pausing. Italy could practically see the cogs turning in his head as he stared. A call ended this as it rang. 

He was startled by Russia quickly kissing him before sitting up. He didn’t understand the contents of the call, as he hadn’t understood the Russian words, but he hadn’t seen the nation look like that.

The click of the door closed his world off once more. He eyed it for a few moments, waiting to see if the nation would return before he looked at his pile of books.

He chose one, his fingers gracing the spine. He read to end the worry nudging itself into his thoughts. 

\--

Italy was startled by the loudness of a door slamming open. He had been struggling to read as his head had been dropping from fatigue. He had known he would return, it was inevitable, but the slamming of the door was a first. 

Russia looked different than usual, not too different, but it was noticeable to him. A bit sloppier, a little more concentrated on moving more than usual. 

“A bit”, of course, if you ignored his lack of clothing. 

Italy was surprised how quick he was despite this. "Ve?!" He squeaked, moving back as Russia climbed onto the bed, pushing him as he has done so, partially against the headboard. 

His hands protectively, instinctually, grab at his throat before his mind caught up with him. A hand had already covered it; pushing against his throat roughly. The Italian’s hands couldn’t tear them off. Italy pales, air escaping his throat with every squeeze. 

The aura, that recognizable aura surrounded the Russian as he stared, choking out. He was unable to speak a plea, however. Unable to cry out when he found what little air he did have, removed from his chest with a punch with the other hand. 

The Russian glared at him, watching the struggling, shaking, nation nearly choke from his action. "There had been an emergency conference," He started. Italy choked, the squeezing worsened with that sentence. His eyes tinged with tears forming at the corner. “Spain had visited your home. Saw the mess you left behind. “

He gurgled a response back, but the Russian ignored him. “He called a meeting to session. All for you.” His eyes widened at that. “You caused so much chaos, don’t you know? We have to look for you, because of you.” 

He gasped as soon as the hand was gone, but the relief was short. He was on top of him, forcing a kiss as he had done so. Big arms wrapped around him as he felt a weight again. 

He tasted of vodka. “You caused all of this. How can one tiny,  **insignificant** , nation have the world wrapped around your finger?” Russia gripped his back hard with each moan as he felt the bigger nation rub against him. 

“You caused this. Caused every single nation to go looking around in places they shouldn’t.” The Russian moaned out, rubbing against him more. He felt it rub against his abdomen, the feeling of  **dirtiness** increasing with each touch. “How can you make me  _ want _ you this much? Don’t you  _ understand _ how much  _ pain _ you cause me?”

“Why is it that, no matter what you do, you make me  _ mad _ ?” The forced kiss grew quicker as the Russian grew more fierce, each leading to a new formed bruise on the Italian. He struggled beneath such ferocity as he felt himself get squeezed back to place. The feeling of  **dirtiness** worsened as a thick, sticky substance touched his abdomen, trickling down to his leg. “Your eyes, your hands, your normal positions, your  _ smile. _ You make me  _ want _ to make you mine, and it’s  _ maddening _ .”

He waited, like he always did as he felt the Russian shift on him. 

“I want you to only be mine,  _ Moya Italyia. _ ”

He took a deep breath. He expected it by now. The only way he knew how to block the  **dirtiness** and the pain the  **dirtiness** brought, was through those  **wrong** ,  **poisonous** words the Russian spoke. With each push and grunt, with each taste of vodka, he reciprocated, allowing the sensations and thoughts to wash over him even with the  **dirtiness** creeping into his heart. Just like he always did. Just like he always had, there was no fight. 

Italy watched as the Russian spoke again when he 'woke up'. He didn’t know what he was saying, but he couldn’t care, either. They were rushed words, words that had no meaning to him as they were in a language he couldn’t understand. He eyed Russia as the Russian pulled him down, gentler than before. He had his arms wrapped around him, wrapping around his waist while doing so. 

He turned away as the nation slowly stopped moving. He heard soft snoring before long, the drunk nation managing to already be fast asleep. He felt exhausted, beyond exhausted really, but sleep wasn’t something that came easily to him, he couldn't attempt to if he tried anymore. Nightmares seemed to only greet him anymore, but the memories he would replay were even worse. He sighed again, his thoughts unraveling back to normal once more. 

They had been worried for him- if what the nation had said was accurate. They were looking for him. His heart pounded briefly at this discovery. If it was true, it meant that, perhaps, he no longer had to stay down in his makeshift home. He didn’t need to deal with this anymore, then. No more forcefulness. He wouldn't need to consider this his home because, then, it wouldn't be. He could almost hear the soft melody of his music box again, one from so long ago. He could almost feel the warm sensation cooking brought him as the stove radiated heat. The tossed words of anger between nations that seemed to permeate through the halls of a conference. The smiles he'd share between those he cared for...

It made the wait worth it, even through the doubt. 

He could wait, if that meant that he wouldn’t hurt anyone he loved. He briefly eyed Russia. He had heard from America (though the validity of it is to be desired) that Russia had the ability to read people’s minds. He hadn’t been near him after the sessions this long. Italy had been worried if it had been so, but the sleeping nation simply continued to snore.

He dropped the accusatory glance before turning to the door again.

The Italian couldn’t help but feel  _ guilty _ , still. Guilt ripped at his heart the more he thought of him causing this. It didn’t make logical sense to him at first, but the more the thought of it, the more it became logical. He tried pushing down bubbling feelings of self-hatred and guilt, but the more they returned with a ferocity that surprised him. 

The more he thought about that, the more he tried ignoring it before it dawned on him. 

He started to realize that, no matter how much he ignored it, he started believing those  **wrong** ,  **disgusting** words. 

That worried him immensely so. 

When he finally felt the other nation leave, it had been morning, if the light had anything to say about it. He stretched, yawning as he done so. He let his drowsy form take in the smell of fresh coffee. 

He hadn’t smelt coffee lately. Coffee was a rarity for him. He stared at where the smell came from. It was the table once more. At first, he frowned, sighing as he had done so. He tugged at the chain bitterly. A minute passed before he noticed the heaviness of the chain, and another before he noted why.

Russia extended the chain.


	2. Cieco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ship of the Chapter:[Spamano][one sided!Pruita][Brotherly!FruIta]  
Implied Ship:[FrUk]  
Past:[Gerita mention]
> 
> Trigger Warnings of this Chapter:  
Very very implied violation, blood, gore, etc. Romano’s Mouth, France, Emotional Abuse, Denial, implied! Mpreg
> 
> *This story bounces every other chapter. It’s going to bounce between [Russia and Italy] and [Germany, Spain, Romano, and co] With the exception of the [Italy] chapters, the POV will shift. This chapter it is Spain’s POV. Some point of views will be a bit more incoherent. If it’s the case here, it’s mostly intentional. Just to clarify, it’s much different than the last chapter, and many things are implied. 
> 
> **To note, there’s some discrepancies between the two chapters. They’ll be addressed in another chapter (Some aren’t mentioned for various reasons, but that’ll be mentioned later) However, I will address a time discrepancy between the two chapters. Italy’s count on how long is going to be very different in comparison because days and nights are skewed for the poor little dude. These chapters focusing on the Nations (minus Italy and Russia to some degree] have the real time frame. I did that on purpose.

Oi, hurry up!" 

"I'm hurrying, _ mi Tomate _!" He laughed before walking faster than before. He couldn't help it, either. He ignored the glare the Italian shot at him as he walked. 

He knew he shouldn’t be so giddy, but he was with Romano. He had always been so happy with Romano, even if the other hadn’t been so happy. Today hadn’t been any different in that regard. It’s been a month since his last visit the Northern Italian’s new home had been in Venice- or at least as close to Venice as possible without being in his heart. 

This used to be a committed action between France and Spain before it was decided (by Romano and England respectfully) that perhaps he never answered because he needed time.

Silence wasn’t something the Northern Italian was particularly known for, and seclusion was typically out of the question. They reluctantly agreed at first, but a month passed and the country still hasn’t removed himself from his home.

_ “Angleterre has been..thoroughly convinced something had been wrong. He had those visions again (something about fairies being sent to check up on Italia)and they warned him of something dark.” France sighed. Spain didn’t understand what France meant, no one knew what those hallucinations from the British nation meant. “He was concerned, convinced something had happened. My boss has been unfortunately strict. I haven’t been able to check myself.” _

_ “I understand, mi amigo. It hasn’t been good on my end, either. “ Spain smiled as he done so. France gave a hum of agreement. _

_ “He’s a stubborn nation, but he does care. Don’t tell anyone I said that,or else he won’t put out, ohononon~!” _

_ Spain swore he heard the British man in the distance, cursing France’s name. He wasn’t sure why. _

Britain and France hadn’t been the only ones concerned, of course. Spain had felt something that drawn him home himself- as though he absolutely needed to be there. He didn’t tell Romano that was partially why he was brought with him. 

He didn’t want to be alone, and that frightened him. Still, he didn’t need to act afraid. Romano had to have been concerned too, despite his actions suggesting otherwise. 

"¿_ Qué _ ? It's funny seeing _ mi Tomate _ like this!" The Spaniard shrugged off the Italian's words. "I knew you loved him!" 

The glare intensified. "Oi, shut up tomato bastard! I have a right to be worried about _ il mio fratellino! _" Spain glanced at Romano, catching the other's downcast- the frown that was normal on his lips softened. The Spaniard ignored the look. He wouldn't tell him, and prying the information out of the Italian was akin to pulling teeth; he could wait if that meant Romano was more comfortable. 

“You haven’t done so before!”

“T-That doesn’t matter!” He hummed as the Southern Italian huffed. Despite the circumstances, he couldn’t help but smile. He loved being with Romano, even with how distant he became. “I care, that’s that.”

Rumors made it sound as though the nation was being cheated on. He didn’t buy it, of course, he knew the two nations in question. Germany and Romano were like oil and water: they didn’t mix well. They couldn’t be in a room together without a one-sided argument taking place. 

He still had doubts, but they were easily quelled. 

He was sure that Romano wouldn't have come, not after what the Northern Italian had done to him. He didn’t understand the reasoning behind that argument, both countries weren’t exactly brotherly, but he didn’t expect such an explosion. Spain managed to convince the reluctant Italian this time, but it had been difficult

The Spaniard's thoughts wandered to the conference once again, thinking of the exchange before the fight truly started. He hated his inaction, in hindsight. He saw the signs, but he hadn’t moved an inch to actually do anything to prevent it. 

A cowardly action that made a salvageable situation into a train wreck.

_ It was like he had witnessed a one sided Italian civil war as it was building. He noted how oddly quiet the younger Italian was; his smile never quite reaching his eyes and the radiant aura that normally fluttered around him had disappeared. _

_ He never made mention of it. He didn’t think he saw it right, after all. _

_ The Northern Italian noticed the Spaniard's gaze that was fixed on him. His false smile faded quite a bit, long enough to notice when stared, but it reappeared fast enough when not. "Oh, ciao Spagna! Ve~" The Northern Italian chirped as he bounded over. He saw him attempt to smile brightly at him. It fell short. _

_ "Is something wrong, Ita-chan?" Spain returned the smile. The Northern Italian tilted his head, veeing in the process before his eyes fell on his brother and the German that was-surprisingly- late. "Is something wrong? You can tell Big Brother anything." _

_ There was hesitation, a glare at the corner on his eyes that was so brief that it made him pause, before settling back on the Spaniard again. _

_ "I...don't know…" Italy admits before pausing again. Spain waited as he watched him formulate words. "...What would you do if you saw something that you shouldn't have seen, but should have seen at the same time?" _

_ Spain blinked at that. "Qué quieres decor?" Italy made a face before Spain understood why. "What do you mean?" _

_ "I.." Italy looked down. "I think..La Germania non è fedele…Sapevo che non era felice. Voglio solo che sia felice. Fa male.” It was a strain to hear, and even when he tried to make out the words he had spoken so softly before shifting, the Italian hadn't repeated. If he hadn’t caught certain words, he wouldn’t have even heard it. Italy shifted in place, eyes plastered to the floor as he done so. _

_ The Italian shook his head. He frowned for a moment before it returned to a weary smile. Spain’s eyes widen at the shift. “Che cosa?” He blinked, his eyes widening before he answered. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to revert like that.” His eyes go back to being downcast. _

_ He hadn’t noticed the Southern Italian had been fixated on the Northern, hadn’t noticed that he was oddly silent as he heard, but never acted on Italy’s words. It wasn't until Romano gave a muttered interjection back in Italian that he couldn't quite hear that well that he noticed that the nation had been paying attention at all, but it was caught by the other. Spain sighed before nudging him to stop, nearly missing the scowl that the Northern half had expressed. _

_ “Is..something wrong between you and Germany?” Spain chose to ignore the Southern’s actions for that moment. He knew Romano well enough to know that acknowledging his pestering would only make things unnecessarily worse. Italy didn’t answer right away. His eyes only met his briefly before looking where the German had been, then to the older Italian to his right. Romano had briefly caught his gaze. It was quick, but he could see the gears turning within each Italians' heads. _

_ The Northern half hesitated. He couldn't see what Romano had been doing, but the effects on the younger Italian were evident. Spain frowned at that. He had been doing things more and more lately that he didn't agree with, but he chose privacy. He trusted Romano, after all. _

_ That didn’t mean he wouldn’t say anything now. Something told him he needed to let him speak.”There is, isn't there?" Italy looked away at that. "If there is, I'm sure you can work it out." _

_ He didn’t know what to do. His mouth dried at those words. After all, how could he help his brother when he can't help himself? _

_ Italy hesitantly nodded, eyeing the occupied Romano carefully. "He's distanced himself from me. He won't look at me like _ ** _that_ ** _ anymore." He paused, shaking his head. He bit his lip. Spain knew he wanted to add onto that thought. He glanced at Romano's steadily increasing frown. He patted the older Italian's shoulder, prompting a huff and a mutter of Italian variety. _

_ The Northern Italian scrunched his face, but reverted back to normal just as quickly. _

_ "Vene, your fists." Spain reminded, gesturing towards the other. So similar to Romano in that regard, but off putting here. The Northern Italian blinked looking down. He gave a small blush before unballing his hands. "Ignore Roma, he's just grumpy 'cause he hates conferences. Pay him no mind." _

_ Romano huffed at the accusation, but didn’t deny it. “I warned you of the potato bastard.” _

_ Northern Italy didn’t respond to the words, making it a point to look directly at Spain instead. Spain shot a glare at Romano before turning back to him. _

_ “Romano, you aren’t helping.” _

_ “I never meant for it to help!” _

_ The Northern Italian eyed him wearily, ignoring the older brother before speaking once more. “Do..you think..?” Spain scrunched his face. He didn’t know what he meant by that. He waited for him to continue the thought. “I lost something that meant a lot to both..of us. I think..sometimes I think he resents me for that. “ _

_ “Resents, Ita? Whatever you lost, he doesn’t resent you for. Nothing is important enough to drive that big of a wedge.” Italy paused, as if contemplating those words and wanting to interject, but with an eye of the Southern Italian, he ended the thought. _

_ "If that’s the case, then how come he acts like it?’” Spain didn’t answer, not that Italy let him, interjecting with something oddly different than before.. ‘I love him, but he.. He..non mi ascolterà. Mi fa sembrare pazzo." _

_ "¿Qué?!" The Italian frowned. A flash of different emotions flashed across his face, but only one managed to be caught. _

_ Guilt. _

_ He never mentioned that guilt to Italy though. The distraught nation already had problems he had difficulties sharing. It wasn’t his place to mention it, either. _

_ He had an assumption of what he had meant, of course, but that assumption of was something he didn’t think the nation would want to hear. _

_ A thick layer of uncomfortable silence settled between the two nations before Spain spoke up, ignoring the assumption. "Is he accusing you of-" _

_ The Northern Italian cut him off. A rare appearance of seriousness washed over his face. "Ho paura di stare da solo. Qualcuno mi osserva e mi spaventa." The Italian's distant eyes startled him more than the seriousness that was uncharacteristic for him. He looked much older- more tired than the normally chipper Italian would be. "Sono preoccupato che accada qualcosa di brutto, ma nessuno mi prenderà sul serio. Se qualcosa lo fa …" _

_ Italian wasn't something Spain knew very well. He was conversational at best. He only understood a few words that the Italian said through a hushed tone. _

_ "Ita, I can't-" _

_ His gaze returned to the Spaniard, giving a silent pleading, a weary smile formed as a result. "I can't translate that for you. I.." He eyed the clock, never finishing what he wrote. The heaviness lifted automatically. His eyes brightened, removing the distant look they once had, removing the tiredness he expressed. "Grazie, Spain-" _

_ "Hey dumbass, what are you going on and on about?" Italy hugged Romano with a smile and a small ve despite the earlier looks he gave the elder brother. "G-Get off me!" _

_ "But Fratello-" _

_ "Shouldn't you be with potato bastard or something?" North Italy paused, a small frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. He was about to speak, but no words came out, instead he chose to shrug before bounding over to Germany. _

_ Spain eyed the Southern Italian, watching his eyes soften briefly, the perpetual frown decreasing when he watched the Northern leave. The Southern Italian blinked, briefly glancing at the Spaniard before his eyes widened, cursing out in surprise. A play hit was his answer to Spain. “W-What are you staring at, you bastard?” _

_ “Ouch, Roma, you don’t have to hit me!” He gave a playful whine as the nation in question blushed brightly. “I was just curious.” _

_ “Eh?!” _

_ Spain sheepishly grinned. “I..don’t know what he said to me.” He admitted. “I don’t understand, you heard it, right?” _

_ “If you don’t understand Italian, learn it, damn it! What am I, your translator?” Brief pause. “It’s not my damn fault you don’t know Italian. I won’t translate for you.” _

_ Spain wanted to call out to him- something told him that hindsight would cause him to regret the missed opportunity, but he kept his mouth shut. _

_ He kept his mouth shut despite seeing something even more startling coming out of the Northern Italian, something that he was positive wasn't possible for him to produce, nonetheless seemingly directed towards South Italy. By now the North had been used to South's words. _

_ Why did he see so much resentment, then? _

He could wait, especially if it meant it could clear the lingering thoughts. He couldn’t piece together what each word meant, as Romano didn’t give him any clue what it meant, except that it was bad. There were shouts, shouts so fierce that it truly was a civil war of words that only they understood.

Maybe France, too, knew. He hadn’t said anything either, though. 

He sighed before continuing the tune. Despite his merry tune, his perpetual smile seemed to falter as he got closer. The conference still didn’t leave his thoughts no matter how hard he pushed them away. Unknown words didn’t stop the shouts, the loud slap that made the room grow quiet in a matter of minutes, and the pull of the nations that couldn’t get the Northern to return. 

He never saw someone see red like that, never expected his friend, practically brother do that especially. It was harsh enough that the German excused himself and ended the meeting early, enough that made the Southern Italian, as much bravado as he attempted to have, slink out the room as though he were Canada. 

That harshness never ended, either. The Northern Italian decided seclusion was the right answer. With each passing day, the hope he would leave died. After the first couple, the point was made abundantly clear. Spain knew he was terrified of silence and, more so, being alone.

Whatever that made him feel, it was enough to choose seclusion in spite of the fear. He didn’t want to think why that would be, either. 

With each visit, nothing was heard and no one was seemingly there. After one failed attempt, he brought it to Prussia during an arranged meet up. It was the last time, coincidentally, he checked up on the Northern Italian.

_ Spain watched as France handed him a wine and the Prussian a beer. In truth, he came at the call of the Frenchman and Prussian rather than interest. _

_ "You're being a stick in the mud! The awesome me believes you need to loosen the hell up!" The Prussian laughed, swishing the beer before swiftly taking a drink. He pointed at the Spaniard, waving a finger the moment he saw his protests. "No butts! You can't focus on him." _

_ Spain blinked. "You're free man, take it and run." France's eyes widened at that. _

_ "Je suis désolé, but I don't think he's thinking about _ ** _Sud de l'Italie_ ** _ ." France had put an emphasis on Sud de l'Italie with a tisk. Hesitation was present in his words, briefly eyeing the Spaniard before he drank. It was an unspoken conversation between Prussia and France that caught his eye before he bothered to continue. "Sweet Italie is the one that is on the market, no? I think we can all agree on the benefits of _ ** _that_ ** _ hononon~" _

_ "Ack, point taken. Man.." France shot the Prussian a glare, stopping his words momentarily. His red eyes glared at his beer briefly, a frown deepening as he thought. He sighed, leaning back in his seat. "Can't believe West! I can't believe my bruder did something so unawesomely awesome. I want to congratulate and kick his ass!" Prussia muttered something before taking another drink. _

_ "Eh?!" Spain looked between both men, but remained almost unheard. _

_ "Never thought he had it in him to get laid more than once!" Prussia grew quiet after his laughter ceased. "Didn't think he'd do it in such a töricht way. Gah! I want to be proud, but man, you don't lead a person on! At least have the decency to dump the armer kerl! " He paused. "You...just don't do that." _

_ "Mon cher ami, you're only saying that because you want to lay with little Italie, oui? " Prussia spat his drink at that. His pale face turning crimson as the ex-nation sputtered a response. _

_ "N-Nein! I just don't like it when you lead people on! That's just not right!" _

_ "That doesn't sound like a no~" _

_ "Gah, forget that nonsense!" Prussia turned away, the blush never quite leaving as he done so. "Point still stands! You leave _ ** _then_ ** _ fuck around. That's the order of things!" France chuckled before downing the rest of his cup. _

_ "So you can-" _

_ "Hey, a man can dream!" Prussia stuck his tongue out at the Spaniard. France raised a brow before smirking. _

_ "So you _ ** _do_ ** _ want to lay with little Italie?" France waved him off when he tried to retort. "I bet Allemagne would disagree with that sentiment. Not that he'd be correct to." Prussia frowned. Spain eyed the Prussian, watching if he would do something that could potentially get them in trouble once more. _

_ "West should've thought of that before he-" France cut him off before he could finish. Spain blinked as France kept up a measured glare. _

_ "You know, I never said it was the correct thing to do, mind you. My standards are a bit higher than that." France quickly replied. "If you want him so badly, then perhaps it's not to late, oui?" Prussia eyed the Frenchmen wearily. _

_ "Can you both slow down? Dios mío. I don't know what's going on!" _

_ A silence fell between the three before France had broken it. Spain couldn't help but sense that they were tiptoeing around the subject. _

_ They didn’t continue with that thought, either. Prussia and France exchanged glances again before France spoke up, morbid fascination clear in his voice. _

_ "Italy came to me for advice. Mon cher was absolutely distraught!" Spain noted how hesitant the Frenchman had become when he spoke. His side glances to him only worsened this suspicion. "Practically frothing at the mouth! It was a sight that, I must admit, is both terrifying and perfectly erotic." _

_ Spain almost choked. "Wait, wait, wait-" _

_ France tisked again, tipping and empty glass at Spain while doing so. "French are lovers too, even if he didn't turn to me, I can see the distance. I can tell when there's no- ohononon!" _

_ "How come you never said anything?" Spain questioned. The interactions at the conference made him shudder, enough so that he hadn't mentioned the conversations. _

_ "I didn't want to get my hands dirty, ohononon!" France shook his head before chuckling. "I've seen the..interaction you two had at the conference. Really, it was quite predictable. Of course I did. Thought Germany would notice. I forgot how blind that man can be. " _

_ Prussia rolled his eyes. "So it's true that Ita-chan blew his lid?" He pushed closer, a smile growing on his face as Spain gently pushed him back with a sigh. "He did didn't he?! Man, that's why West came home- keseseses!" He cut himself off, laughing while doing so. _

_ France waved the ex-nation off. _

_ "Si, I was wondering why he was so angry." Spain slunk back as he watched France pour more wine in his glass. He shrugged in defeat before he frowned. Something didn't make sense to the Spaniard. "But..Ita-chan didn't yell at Germany though..?" _

_ The Prussian and the Frenchman stopped. _

_ They never did make up a believable excuse. They tried before admitting something he was sure were lies. He never expressed that to them, but the looks they gave him afterward suggested as much. _

His friends sucked at lying and they sucked at holding back details. Spain's heart swelled knowing that they had been lying about something, even if it's something, he rationalized, was for him to discover. 

_ “I wish you didn’t hear it through rumors instead of us.” France spoke so carefully. Prussia slid down, almost hiding in a way. _

_ Normally, Spain had to make sure the ex-nation would cool down before he would make a scene. It was common that they’d get in trouble for his antics when showing off- mostly to the ladies and (unsuccessfully to) Italy. _

_ Prussia, he noted, wanted to be more like a ghost than ever before as guilt and shame marred the normally boisterous and prideful ex-nation. _

_ “I told West to tell you. I told him to tell Italian, too. “ Prussia pressed his hand against his head briefly. “West can be a dummkopf with things, but I expected him to do right by both of you. He knew better than to do what he did. “ _

_ Spain thought back to his assumption he had made earlier when he spoke with Italy. He ignored the implications that were made by the Prussian, of course. “He..said he thought Germany resented him.” _

_ Prussia snapped up at the question, stiffening at that. “It’s not my place to say anything about that.” He looked away before elaborating. “..It wasn’t Italy’s fault. If he thinks West resents him for that, (Germany) needs to fix that. There was nothing he could have done to prevent the loss.” _

He ignored the thoughts creeping in that kept repeating the same mantra over and over: Listen to them, don’t trust him. _ He’s been hiding, he’s been lying, and he won’t say a word. Run. _

He trusted Romano. He really did. He trusted him deeply because that’s how love worked. Even if it didn’t always make sense- even if his thoughts grew muddled with every whisper of rumor that floated around him, he ignored and persevered. 

He trusted Romano. 

Everything about Italy had been abnormal, though, which made that trust waver before bouncing back to normal. It brought back uncomfortable thoughts of the conference that he didn’t want to think about. It was abnormal to see the Italian angry; but to see him absolutely fuming, looking so _ similar _ to his Tomate, was surprising. 

To see it _ directed _ to his _ Tomate _ was alarming.

He wished he spoke up sooner. Maybe Romano wouldn't have been as guilty. Maybe he wouldn’t have felt so guilty. 

"_ Ehi, ti ho detto che sto arrivando! _" He ignored the harshness of Romano's words. The Italian scowled.

"Alright, alright! I'll wait for you_ , mi Tomate _!" He didn't need to see Romano to know that he blushed a furious red as he said that. He paused, waiting for Romano to catch up, his eyes scanning the area briefly as he has done so. Spain sighed in relief. The reoccurrence of the feeling had been met with skepticism this time. Italy was the country, or what felt like to be the country of superstitions. They were with him for a while, it wouldn’t be surprising that superstitiousness had rubbed off on him. 

If he thought of it like that, it didn’t make his stomach feel worse. His smile didn't falter as much when he thought of it like that. 

"You coming or what? God, you take forever!" He spat a curse before suddenly halting, face turning pale. Spain was about to answer before pausing. He eyed Romano briefly, confusion lacing his features. His merry tune stopped as he turned from the other nation. Green eyes widened as they honed in on the door. 

His smile turned into a shaky grin, bordering on frown as his heartbeat quickened at the sight. Marks, a mixture of knife and sheer brute force marks littered the abused door. The knob had been picked rather crudely, having fallen off entirely. He saw himself pushing the broken door without even realizing he did as Romano trailed behind him. 

He was fine a month ago. He had been just fine when he last saw him. He had taken over France's position, begging for the Italian to come out of the home before retreating to be with Romano once more. It had been his Tomate's very tendencies that made him want to hold him closer than before.

He never regretted any action more than he regretted that inaction now. 

"Italy?" He wavered, trying to find even a hint of the other Italian. He tried to push back the ever increasing panic that tried settling into his voice. Romano huffed, putting on a fake bravado that started trembling almost automatically. 

He eyed Romano, stepping in front of him like he used to do. He would protect the Southern Italian if something or someone was still there.

A glance of the marks indicated that they were there for a long period of time. He didn’t know how long, but it wasn’t mere days ago. He knew that much. It was unlikely that someone would greet them if that were to be the case. He didn’t want to be wrong. 

He was already wrong, and being wrong had costed him too much already. 

"Vene, stop messing around!" Romano frowned, brows furrowing as he peeked around the Venetian home, looming over the Spaniard in the process. He didn’t object to using the Spaniard as a human shield, not that Spain would allow that. 

The home was eerie; walls of cherry red with a single line of black patterning on the bottom and pure white carpeting were so cheery despite the lack of soul. Spain forced himself forward, forcing his shaken legs to work. 

For once, Britain was right. Spain didn’t know what he meant until he felt it. It was a chill that the home had that made him agree. It shouldn’t be cold, after all. It had been far warmer outside, and an AC was nowhere to be seen. The fans were off, infested with a colony of dust bunnies.

They were off for a while. 

Spain nodded to the Southern Italian, giving him a gesture before he pressed on. It was silly, perhaps, but it made him feel less scared. He eyed the rooms with ease. There were a surprisingly large number of rooms despite the outer appearance. So many that were simply there with no use. He paused, it seemed to be a waste to have so many unused rooms with how pretty they were. 

“Do you think he hurt himself?” He snapped at the voice. Romano hadn’t cursed, probably too shocked to. The scared Italian had been eyeing a broken vase. It was a gift, he didn’t recall where it came from or who, but it had been shattered into pieces that made it nearly unrecognizable. “That’s blood..” Spain had to strain to hear that.

“Eh?!” Romano didn’t repeat himself, moving passed the broken shards and the tiny droplets of blood. “Romano are you okay?”

"Stop fucking around! I know you're in here! If I have to, I'll drag your ass out of here myself!" Romano was fine, he sighed in relief as he traced the walls. He had to steady himself. That feeling was embracing him quite tightly and he couldn’t breathe with it anymore. He felt himself glancing at the ground as he felt himself go room to room. 

He hadn’t been to the master bedroom, not yet, he noticed. Not every room necessarily looked as empty as it appeared. Some were fancier than necessary guest bedrooms, each had some theme to it- he thought it looked so similar to a mixture of France and Japan. Some, he noticed, were supply rooms. Not many supplies were in there, of course, but they were neatly packed away in containers or not even touched.

None of them had the same grime as the hallways, so clean but distinctly wrong. It was so orderly, as though someone dusted each room, but not the rooms that were very visible. They had noticeably less dust than the others, but they weren’t touched either. 

It was too clean, far too clean and tidy for the Northern Italian. He pushed down each thought of panic. He had a phone mom him, and an incredibly fast Italian. (Though if the Italian would save him, he didn’t think of that) He was fine. There was no one there, after all. 

He removed himself from the room, eyeing Romano before he headed to the master bedroom, the main bedroom. Romano nodded as he explored the other parts of the house, distinctly ignoring the kitchen. Spain didn’t question that, either. "Ita-chan? It's big brother Spain!" 

His stomach churned as silence was his answer. He was always met with silence, but it was distinctly wrong here. He focused on the bedroom first, the kitchen was the last place he needed to look for life. He didn’t smell the pasta that the Northern Italian had a tendency to make, nor anything else. No banging of silver pans or the bustle he gave off.

The bedroom was the best bet. He could sleep through an apocalypse if he could (he had, too). Something told him not to. It was a scream in his head that made him never want to go into that room in the first place, like a warning siren. 

He took a deep breath as he pushed the door open, ignoring the thoughts completely. There, the bedroom was disorderly. No life had been had, not recently, but _ something _ had been there. Hanging from the headboard was a long, rope that looked as though it had been cut and cleaned thoroughly. The amount of dust had all but confirmed that- it had been dusty, but not so much so as the other areas. 

The rope was just high enough to bound hands. He pushed the nauseating thought back as he eyed the rest of the bed. The blanket had been crudely tossed and washed, but the grime had still stayed there. White, he noted, it had to have been white at some point, the color has long faded from what might have been bleach, but it had been there. Splotches of thick, dark brown spots danced across the blankets. 

The bed itself had been dented, pushed to some degree that indicated roughness. Not long enough to make an indent or where someone slept (he doubted Italy was big enough to make such a dent and Germany hadn’t been near the nation, either), but it was permanently broken after an action.

Did..he get..? He shook his head. That was one assumption he couldn’t make at the moment. It was a bold assumption, one that he didn’t..couldn’t..fathom anyone would do to the secluded Italian. Something caught his eye, at the corner of the bed. Something paper like had been shoved between the bed and the frame, sticking out as though it desired to be found. 

Morbid curiosity made him lift it up, ignoring the calls of Romano for just a moment. The paper was less like paper, he noted. Laminated like an old photograph with a weird slickness to it. There were 2 of them, something he didn’t see before. That same morbid curiosity had pushed him to flip over the laminated photo, an action he came to regret.

He covered his mouth, forcing himself to ignore the oncoming scream that dared to come out. His breathing quickened at the grotesque sight. 

Northern Italy had been bound by the wrists that hung above his head, his slender hands trickled with blood, blood coming from furious cuts that weren’t possible self inflicted. He was unconscious, his head had an uncomfortably long gash as though it had been struck. The Northern Italian had marks that ran down his neck- hickies, he guessed from what they were as well choking fingers, all the way down to his abdomen, mixing with cuts, bruises, blood, and a sticky white substance of god knows what. Clothes were forcibly removed, cut to create the picture. 

At the bottom, beautifully written in neat script, had been words that made his blood run cold. “I loved you the moment I saw you, I finally have you, my Italy.” 

It had been grotesquely romantic; as broken and battered as the Northern Italian appeared, the picture made him appear..serene. His face had the normal blush of cheer, a forced smile gracing his lips, but he had been unconscious. It was though he had been considerably doll-like despite the actions that had been done. 

The perpetrator had acted as though this was a sign of love. He bit back the thoughts. 

Northern Italy had been- he didn’t want to continue those words. He already knew it. He didn’t need to say it out loud, he didn't want to make it _ real _. 

He didn’t bother looking at the other. Not now, he couldn’t. He pushed the pictures into his pockets despite how dirty it made him feel to do so. He eyed the room wearily, stacks of notes filling the desk near the bed. Each one coated in dust. Each one had something more extravagant attached. 

He was reminded of the words he thought the Italian had spoken to him. He pieced together what conversational Italian he knew to understand the memory. 

Was this what he was worried about?

“Spain?!” He jumped back, startled at the voice. He removed himself from the bedroom, even though his thoughts didn’t. He felt the Southern Italian’s arms wrap around him, nearly pounding into his back. 

Romano was incredibly afraid. 

“Roma, are you al-“

“I heard you scream, you bastard! You didn’t answer me!” Romano shot back, pushing off the Spaniard before rubbing his eyes. He blushed in embarrassment before scowling. “Warn me next time, damn it!”

He screamed? He didn’t catch it himself. He hesitantly removed the cursed photo from the bedroom. He didn’t want to see it again. He didn’t want to see Romano’s reaction to it. 

“_ C-Che cosa? _!” A shriek before the photo found its way back into his hands and into his pockets. “W-What the fuck?” Romano shot a glare at the Spaniard, who shook his head in response.

“I found it in the room. You..don’t want to go there.” He didn’t mask the words he really meant. Romano didn’t need that warning though. He nodded at the advice, falling silent when doing so.

“That was real then? That’s real, isn’t it?” Spain didn’t answer that. He didn’t know how to. “It is..isn’t it?” 

A brief look of guilt crossed the Southern Italian’s features. He didn’t question it, either. 

“You checked the other side, right?” Romano snapped to attention. He was about to say something, most likely a curse or something similar, but he simply nodded. “Good, the only place left is the kitchen. Then we’ll call Germany. “

Romano’s face scrunched st the mention of Germany, but he didn’t protest. Germany had a better reputation when it came to meetings despite the rumors. It was the best bet to get aid. The pair was cautious as they approached the kitchen, the Spaniard opting to stay ahead to protect the other again. 

His eyes tried drifting off to the blatant mess that got bigger and bigger the more he approached despite trying to be the braver of the two. 

The cleaner it seemed to get, too. So oddly clean that it disturbed the Spaniard greatly. He briefly glanced at the Italian behind him. He didn’t need to say that, not now. 

"Ita-chan?" His voice went dead silent. It was for naught, he knew better. Italy wouldn’t be there if the picture was accurate. Romano crept his way to the other nation while sporting a faltering scowl. 

Bravado crumbled within seconds despite putting the mask on mere minutes before. 

_ "S-Spagna, che cazzo fai?" _ Romano tapped his former boss. "Spain-" Romano's gaze followed the Spaniard's.

Spain couldn't feel himself flinching when he heard Romano's scream. It was muffled to the Spaniard, even though his body reacted. 

To call the kitchen a mess was an understatement. Messes tended to be small, after all. Messes were something Romano would cause making pasta or if he accidentally let turtles wander around his home to track mud. (Not that he had experience in that department- he would absolutely deny involvement if you asked that-especially if Roma was around. What Roma didn't know won't kill him)

The kitchen, however, was closer in appearance to those overrated horror movies America sometimes made him watch. Blotches of rusted brown decorated the white counters and silver linoleum flooring. Utensils had spilled onto the floor, a lone dulled knife had been cast aside on the other end of the room, it's handle cracked on the side with indentations marking the cause. 

Another sticky mess, but cleaner than the bed, with adequate amounts of dried, decomposed, blood had been on one spot in particular. He didn’t need to read into it to know exactly what had occurred. There was more of a mess in the kitchen than the bedroom, but he couldn’t see any of it. None of it would be seen by the Spaniard. 

The sick thoughts of the other picture briefly entered. He truly didn’t want to see the picture if it was the first in the sequence of disgusting events. His vision turned to sick static as he felt his fingers trembling, frantically typing away on a phone he forcibly shoved into Romano’s hands as he felt his thoughts swirl and eaten by black edges.

He saw a phone in the background before he couldn’t recall anything anymore, it was broken and shattered beyond repair. 

When he was aware of his surroundings once more, he heard a rush of frantic Italian and very very angered German. Both speaking over him and he had no idea what the other had dared to speak.

Some splotches of English had graced his ears, but they were formalities at best. ‘Keep silent’, ‘we’ll find him, don’t alert the other nations yet’. 

A hug was all he knew occurred, though. A hug laced with muffled tears and panicked cries of Italian and his own hushed coos if Spanish of comfort.

He failed, he failed. It was his fault. 

Romano didn’t leave his side that day. He hadn’t for the longest time. He hadn’t felt so much love from the nation in a while, and the love that the nation finally willingly shared was so great, he didn’t deny. 

——

He failed them, he hurt them. It was his fault. Even in his dreams he couldn’t remove the guilt. 

Spain yawned, reaching out only to be met with an empty bed again like he had done so many times before. Last night Romano had been there, he knew so because recollection hit him before the coldness of the bed did. 

He still could feel the passionate kisses that the smaller nation gave him, curses at the seemingly slowness. The feeling of Romano’s slender, yet rough hands that made him feel as though his cursed body was worth something

Domination, love, passion. Pain mixed with pleasure, the feeling of being filled- even if he didn’t deserve the feelings he had gotten from it, for the first time in a while, he felt the care in the smaller nation. 

Realization had a terrible way of ruining that pure bliss as the coldness crept in. Romano wasn't there. He expected as much, he shouldn’t have expected him to stay. He was used to him leaving so fast. 

Expecting it didn’t mean that it didn’t hurt any less.

He was a mess, he knew that. No matter how much Romano tried to help, it only solidified that: Why wasn’t he or his body worth the stay? Was that all he was worth, a quick lay? He brushed the thoughts off, ignoring the lingering feelings that kept forcing their way up into his chest. 

Was he not good enough? Another thought slipped through despite trying to ignore it. He picked himself up off the bed, cleaning what he could, trying to hide the desire to simply lay back into the warmth of the blankets, to remember what had been before being reminded of what was. 

He trusted Romano. He was just had to continuously chant it. If he did, it made everything feel better. It did briefly, like it always had. He eyed the tomato looking clock briefly. He wasn’t late, not by a long shot, but he would be if he hadn’t moved. 

He sighed, stretching as he pushed himself to the bathroom like a zombie. He recalled through haze this _ tomate _ suggested something- he hadn’t been listening to his words so much as the comforting tone of them. He hadn’t felt good, not at all, and his words were a blessing when he felt like garbage. He wondered if Romano knew he wasn't paying attention that day- if he did, he never spoke of it. 

The words that were spoken, in the end, weren't as important as the words he wished to have spoken. 

He never did tell him, did he? His haze told him no, it was yet another task he hadn't done. He mentally sighed. He made a mental note to do that, like he always did. He was always too afraid to say those three little words. Three little words that in any other circumstances, would be easily spoken. The energetic Spaniard was more than capable of doing so if he wasn’t scared.

_ Estoy embarazada _ . _ I am pregnant. _

He didn’t want him to leave, though. He didn’t know if Romano knew, or if he knew how long it’s been since he felt anything other than sick. Romano had never been great with expressing things like worry, he wished he had at least _ said _ something. _ Anything _ was preferable to _ nothing _. 

It frustrated him to no end and it made him feel guilty for not taking that into consideration. He trusted Romano, he’ll understand that eventually even if his thoughts were betraying him on that front. 

He’ll say something, he hopes he’ll say something, _ anything _. He wasn’t sure of himself anymore. 

A tiny, insignificant voice made him think of running. Hiding away with a child he didn’t want to drag down with him. He had to think of them. It was tiny, insignificant, but it wasn’t something ignorable. He could feel the bump; it was small, but there. Easily hidden, but there. 

It made him see, he’d rather be blind. 

He yawned before shaking his head. He knew better than to dwell on that. It wouldn’t matter, after all. He had something to do. What was it? He rubbed his head as the zombie like feeling started to disappear with each moment. The thoughts of prior weighed his head, but they too began to exit. He didn’t need to see, then. Not at this moment. He forgot what he had been doing for a moment as other thoughts caught up with him. 

Meeting, he was getting ready for _ that _ meeting. He groaned. Normally, he didn’t mind the bustle of the meetings. The loudness, the banter, it all was welcoming to him. He liked watching the interactions. 

After all, in most circumstances, that meant he could sneak off with Romano. Romano wouldn’t object, and he couldn’t let the smaller nation just wander off. It was just a bonus that he could be with Romano alone in that way. (Even if Romano didn’t outright say so himself.) 

Today’s meeting was different. He wanted to do anything but go. It wasn’t the right feeling, but every instinct told him to not go. Even with the haze of morning thoughts he could remember the pictures, each more grotesque than the last with the out of place words delicately- beautifully- written down.

By this time, it had been months since he last saw the home, last saw his brother. Five months, he counted in detail. He always did, it helped him remember his greatest mistake. He didn’t need to eye the pictures to know what he thought they were about anymore. They were as ingrained into his mind as the nightmares that plagued his dreams of that day. He remembered the very forced means of keeping him silent for the investigation, he remembered how angry he had gotten..

He never told Romano a lot of things, he realized. Never about the nightmares that haunted, and never about the pictures- he doubted if Germany knew, either. 

_ When did he distrust him? _

The only comfort he managed to find was Romano, and even that seemed so scarce in relation to things. He appreciated the nation, he did. He was the father of his child, he was his husband, he was simply his- but that comfort started getting smaller and smaller.

It didn’t help that the doubt was lingering in the longer he thought of it, no matter how hard he tried to believe him. 

Romano would sometimes slip back into their home in the dead of night to comfort him, despite the little comfort it gave, it always made him smile. He had a country to deal with that normally two would handle. He appreciated the thoughts no matter how much his own thoughts seemed to disagree.

When he argued with them, they only pointed to the accusations. 

There weren’t true accusations made against him, he knew that, but the glances he considered were accusations. Accusations and pity. He hadn’t met with Prussia anymore for that reason. Prussia couldn’t hide that pity. He couldn’t handle it, either. He wanted those stares, those accusations to stop

The pictures didn’t make things better, either. They were recurring in nature and the more he avoided looking at them, the more he got. It was driving him mad with guilt. 

The more he thought about it, the more he kept being reminded of how oddly affectionate it was to the Italian; it was nauseating how much affection could be drawn. 

He dropped the issue entirely, though. He didn’t need to worry or doubt Romano. He didn’t need that that this time. 

That didn’t stop the criticism he gave himself: He hurt him. He failed his own brother. He failed his family, he failed everyone. It was all him. 

_ The Northern Italian cut him off. A rare appearance of seriousness washed over his face. [“I’m afraid to be alone. Someone watches me, and it scares me.”] The Italian's distant eyes startled him more than the seriousness that was uncharacteristic for him. He looked much older- more tired than the normally chipper Italian would be. [“I'm worried something bad will happen, but no one will take me seriously. If something does…”] _

He shook off the distinct feeling of acid that welled up in the pit of his stomach as he opened the cabinets. He tried to ignore the thoughts that began to multiply by focusing on something else instead. The clothing he set aside for the meeting were right there. He knew they were right there, he put them there after all.

Why was it so hard to see them though? 

He didn’t realize his tears were obstructing his view until he felt the wetness drop onto his hand. They were heavy tears, tears he hadn’t even known existed in him. 

It was his fault. Everything had been his fault the entire time. He hurt his brother, hurt the one he loved, and now he’s continually doing so. Spain stayed like that for a good minute. He was so, _ so _ stupid. 

Oh god, _ how many _ people did he hurt? 

Will he hurt _ them _, too? 

He cupped his face in his hands. His hands allow him to hide the sight of himself for the first time in a long time. He was pathetic. Once a powerful nation reduced to tears that were better left unsaid. A sobbing mess that was cursed to cause hell wherever he happened to be. 

“_ Oh dios, por favor perdoname _.” His voice wavered as he forced himself to fumble, grabbing the clothes he had. He couldn’t see, he didn’t want to see. He didn’t want to see that bump, he didn’t want to see his disgusting face, he didn’t want to see him. 

It was subtle at first, a nudge that indicated blame with him. He didn’t know at first what the missing nation told him. He should’ve known, like Romano told him. He should’ve known because he was so used to Italian. It didn’t matter if he asked, he shouldn’t need to be told.

He made the investigation put on standby, the nations never talked until now. That’s what Romano not-so-subtly suggested. It didn’t matter who told him not to say anything, it didn’t matter if he did tell, because he was the older of the nations.

He was thick, but not incredibly so. Romano reminded him of that enough times to understand. He was stupid, he knew that. 

He didn’t question the calmness that the Italian and the Germanic nation seemed to share, because if he had, it would be met with criticism. He was too slow. What was his right to point something out like that, didn’t he understand that not everyone was outwardly worried?

He did question it, though. He questioned it so many times that he couldn’t think straight. He was doubtful that he felt guilt, even when his friends told him not to.

Prussia..France, he didn’t want to hurt them anymore. His thoughts would argue that they were right, but he couldn’t ignore the guilt.

He trusted the nation he loved. He want blind. He trusted him. 

Romano was right, at first, to not be worried, even if his thoughts argued so vehemently against that logic. Italy getting kidnapped wasn't uncommon, even the Spaniard had to admit it was something close to constant when the world was at war.

His thoughts, rightfully so, would constant argue that war was not occurring presently. There is no worth in kidnapping a nation without a war to bring monetary value to it. These thoughts argued quite poignantly to the Spaniard that Italy wouldn’t lie about feeling stalked, but those thoughts fell of deaf ears.

He hurt him as a result of that. He could never forgive himself for that. 

France made it abundantly clear by now that it was five months at worse the nation had been gone for. Five, long, agonizing, months. Five months of elegant words on grotesque pictures. At best, four months after seeing the state the kitchen had been in. He knew better to call it four, though. It was five. 

Far too long. Far too much time has passed, not that he could admit it out loud. Not to his friends, not to his love, not to others. He could never admit that Germany was..off, to him. That Romano had been eerily silent after the visit to the Venetian home. 

Neither looked the slightest bit concerned, not to him. 

France forced the meeting to be expedited, if it was even going to happen. France did so regardless of the German’s pleas or the scowl of the Southern Italian. France was always confrontational with the German, but to see him prod him so viciously so, to know he felt good when he did, caused turmoil that he couldn’t fathom. 

He admired that, he wished he could have done that. He failed, and now even France did better than him. 

_ Nails dig themselves into his skin, nearly making his arm bleed in the process. Spain winced with each tug from the Frenchman. _

_ There was an odd resolution coming off France as he hit against the German’s door. The normal mischievous featured that would lace his face were absent. His fist grew red with each beat. Spain eyed France with each pound of the door. More strength being put into each pound than necessary. _

_ France glared at the door with each muffled step inside was made. It was quiet, if Spain strained enough, he could hear hurried, hushed voices. _

_ His eyes widened, but bit back a response. He ignored the sound of his heart beating in his ears. _

_ Was that..Romano? No, Spain decided against the accusation. France glanced so briefly at Spain that he nearly caught the pity in his eyes. _

_ “Mon cher ami..No one deserves this.” _

_ He shook his head, his heart beating faster. He gave a silent plead with each shuffle behind the closed door. _

_ Each plea grew more desperate. He didn’t buy it. No, he couldn’t buy it. Not unless Romano told him. Not unless he heard Romano say those words. France gave a sigh, a fist striking the door. _

_ Although he knew he would strike the door, it still startled the Spaniard. _

_ “Fear can cause blindness...we were already blind the moment we turned blind, fear struck us blind, fear will keep us blind.” It was a whisper to Spain despite the volume it must have actually been, but he could nearly feel the words laced with a complicated mixture of sorrow, pity, and.. _ ** _guilt_ ** _ . “It came from a beautiful work of a novel*, if I remember correctly. I hadn’t read it in a while. It’s a novel that yearns to be remembered.” There was a silence. _

_ “What makes you afraid, Spain? Why are you afraid?” France spoke softer than before. Disappointment. He recoiled at the accusation. “Don’t let whatever your fear consume you, or else you won’t ever be able to see again. I..don’t want you to be blind. I made..that mistake once. I don’t want you to go through that.” _

_ A pause again before the Frenchman simply smiled, but it wasn’t something cheery. “I…. overdone it. Je suis désolé.” _

_ The door clinking greeted them, breaking the silence that permeated. _

_ “Schönen Tag.” He blinked away the tears that he suddenly felt form at the edge of his eyes. Despite this he could feel the acid of his stomach creep into his throat. He cleared his voice before he continued, looking directly at France first. Spain never saw the powerful nation glance his way. "France. _ ** _You're_ ** _ here. Of course." The German let out an annoyed sigh. "Prussia isn't here, leave. You don't have business here." There was an edge to his words. _

_ "Of course I am here, why wouldn't I be?" France shrugged. The Frenchman lacked the mirth that would normally be present when confronting the German. He couldn't see what the Frenchman was eyeing, but it made Germany shift. "I was concerned for you." _

_ Germany eyed the Frenchman, a deep frown forming with each remark. "You aren't concerned. There's nothing to be concerned about." He narrowed his eyes at France. France clicked, shaking his head. _

_ "As the country of love, I can tell you're not being truthful." France edged closer to the German nation. "You must be incredibly concerned. Who was he-ah yes, Italy. He's been gone for quite a long time. It's..unsettling, I don't doubt it. You must be _ ** _completely_ ** _ wrecked. It's okay to weep." _

_ Something told Spain that France didn't mean any of that. There was a faux sympathy coated in thick sugar that he couldn't remove from his mouth. It was disgustingly sweet that it hurt. _

_ The implications of that were far worse. _

_ Germany didn't respond to that, however. "I've been going over review. I can't drop everything for one nation. There are formalities that must be met first before a formal meeting can take place for missing nations." _

_ If circumstances were different, perhaps he would've been laughing. It was odd how similar Romano and Germany were in terms of emotions. One reserved and the other a firecracker. _

_ Both were terrible liars when it came down to their emotions. _

_ Spain was silent though, preferring to let France speak. He bit back words to prevent himself from saying regrettable. He eyed the calculating Frenchman. He could see all the words running through his friend's head, itching to be released, but were restrained. _

_ He didn't need to speak.That didn't mean he didn't want to, of course. _

_ "Qu'est ce que ça veut dire?!" France shot back. "What does that even _ ** _mean_ ** _ ?!" _

_ "Formalities dictate-" _

_ "Four months, Allemagne! Four months!" Germany recoiled, but that didn’t deter the Frenchman. Not in the slightest. “Four months- potentiality five depending on how long it’s been between visits. That’s _ ** _incredibly_ ** _ long. If he had been a civilian, that would be a death sentence!” _

_ “Italy is a country, he can’t die. There isn’t anything that would ultimately harm him long term.” _

_ There were doubts in those words, lies and other disgusting implications. Spain couldn’t pick which was worse among them all. _

_ “Do you _ ** _really_ ** _ believe that?” France’s voice simmered. It was soft, but boiling under the surface. “Do you believe those lies you tell yourself? Is that how you sleep at night? Nations don’t need to be physically hurt to be hurt long term.” _

_ His stomach twisted, briefly remembering a picture how found in the Venetian home. Seeing such a cheerful nation, broken own in a matter of he could only assume to be, minutes- it was something he couldn’t shake. _

_ Then again, he knew they were unaware of that. He made sure of that. _

_ The picture burned a hole in his pocket. He was given numerous pictures, but the first was always there, mocking him for his inabilities to help. Berating him for not trying hard enough to help him, to tell them all. _

_ “You’re wrong, and you know it, France.” There was panic hidden, catchable, it barely. “You’re wrong, verdammt!” _

_ How long did it take for a nation to break? _

_ France softened at that but didn’t stop. _

_ "I was worried about you. I was, considering your relationship with the nation. I don't know the specifics of your relationship to the nation, so I could be wrong either way. Italy was your fiance? Husband?" France shrugged. "Ah, none of the above, right Allemagne? You don’t care if he was all the above or none of the options. Even if you cared, you made sure he was none of the above.” _

_ The German flinched asthe Frenchman came closer. _

_ Spain noted the mixture of emotions that made their way onto the features on the normally stoic nation. A pang of guilt rang through his mind. _

_ He...a part of him enjoyed seeing the misery the German expressed. A part of him wanted to push the knife further into the wound France had intentionally created himself. _

_ The thought was disgusting to him, the emotions that became prevalent had been inching further and further into disgusting, so much so that it disturbed the Spaniard. _

_ “So, the rumors were _ ** _true_ ** _ after all?" _

_ France didn't say anything- even Spain could sense the lingering implication in France's words: "you cheated, he left, you can't handle that, you still can’t." _

_ Spain didn’t hear what the two were saying- not at the moment. He heard the rumors. They had been increasing in number and frequency. With each conference pass, he felt pity stares land on him. _

_ He couldn’t make them stop. He couldn’t make doubt stop. _

_ If he believed Romano, those disturbing and ultimately disgusting thoughts wouldn't be there. If he trusted him, if he didn’t doubt him. _

_ He wasn't sure if he did. He pushed the thoughts away. No, he believed Romano, absolutely. France was wrong, his thoughts were wrong, Germany himself was wrong. He had to be wrong. He didn’t believe that the German his own brother had loved since the First World War would cheat, because how could he? Couldn’t believe that his-Romano would go with the German he hated. It made so little sense. _

_ When he brought himself back to the conversation between France and Germany, France was nearly done. _

_ "What was he to you?" _

_ "Was?" _

_ "What was mon petit frère to you?" It was a simple question, really. Spain watched the nation do a double take. "Allemagne, it's a simple question. You should be able to answer it. What was he to you?" _

_ A brief silence before the Frenchman continued. "Italie is mon petit frère. He..is a lot of things, but he is a good man. He and I, we go far back. I..admit my treatment of him..is questionable at times, but do not get me wrong, I care deeply about him. That is why I am asking you this again: what was Italy to you?" _

_ "I..liebte ihn." Simple, articulated. More articulated than normal for the German when it came to emotions. A small blush, a twinge of a smile, both with an attempt to be hidden by the larger man. "Fiance. Mut-" Germany paused, biting back words as if realizing he said too much. "He was everything. He is everything." _

_ “I absolutely loved him. I still do absolutely love him.” Germany stopped once more, glaring at nothing in particular as he gripped the door frame. “...I was töricht, I should’ve listened to him. “ _

_ Spain tilted his head, confusion seeping through. It was enough to push passed the creeping thoughts momentarily. He glanced at France briefly; he shared similar thoughts. The Frenchman didn't speak, but that didn't mean the Spaniard failed to notice the brief widening of the eyes the Frenchman had as realization kicked in. _

_ Spain had assumed something similar, but having it confirmed made him uneasy. He didn’t know the timeframe, but to him that didn’t matter. You simply don’t do..that. You don’t blame the one you love for something like..that. _

_ France slowly nodded, still deterred by the German's words. "..that is your answer, then? That's what you think of him?" Spain backed off, ignoring the pain his arm radiated when he done so. _

_ “...I hope that he..mon petit frère..isn’t hurting.” France frowned. “He told me you thought he was crazy. That was one of my last conversations with him before he..was taken. I have never seen that man so..angry in my life. So conflicted before. You did the impossible.” _

_ “I hope he isn’t hurting. Whatever happens, it’s on your hands, Allemagne” _

_ Yet, it made so much sense. Germany was different then him. So very different and it was obvious. _

He ignored the lingering thoughts and memories. He had to leave. Romano had been waiting for him. 

He did not need to disappoint again.

—-

“Why are we here?” 

“I think it has something to do with the rumors?” 

“Those rumors? That’s why?” The British voice tisked, but something was hidden in that remark. “Such pointless drivel.”

“What rumors?” An oblivious American, Spain frowned as he sat in the back. Far enough away from the others. Closer to Romano, but he was far too guilty to be near the others. The others seemed to grow aggravated from the American, too. 

“What?”

Not now. 

“Of course, you’re oblivious to everything.” He could practically see England rolling his eyes despite the distance. 

“Now now, my lovely _ Angleterre _ , you shouldn’t be so mean~” France chuckled. Something told the Spaniard he wasn’t as happy as he sounded. “ _ Allemagne _ was unfaithful. With so,some awfully close. We mustn’t name names, _ right _ Romano?”

“Get away from me, you frog!”

“Wait wait wait, it was with Romano?” It was plenty loud. Embarrassing, mostly untrue, but embarrassing. “Poor little dude. Family shouldn’t be doing that to each other. So uncool.”

_ “Family shouldn’t forget family exists, but here you are.” _

“Gah, ghost!”

_ “It’s me, Canada!” _

“WHO?” 

_ ‘Sigh’ _

Spain ignored the banter between the nations and the ghost. He never knew he wanted to be the ghost of the room more than he had right there. He eyed Romano.

[“Russia and I drove to get Italy, aru.” (“Where was Russia?”). “Didn’t want him to miss a meeting, again. I didn’t want to write down notes for him like the last time!”

“Why did you write him notes, he takes notes?”

“...I-I was just trying to be nice!” 

“Didn’t he storm off the last time? Didn’t know Italy had it in him!” The American of course was the loudest. “Man, that was explosive!”

“You git, that’s not the point- Frog, I swear- get off me already!” 

“It wasn’t, aru! It was like one of those shitty horror movies America made us watch on that holiday he celebrates again.”

“Hey, don’t trash my movies!”

“America, read the atmosphere for once! That’s not the point!” 

“What’s a book have to do with anything?”

“There was blood on the kitchen floor, on the counters, everywhere. Enough of it to look like a struggle, aru..”

“I must agree with China- Spain told me..the details. He visited the site” ]

A quiet Romano was an upset Romano. It was rare to see him so quiet. He cupped his hand into his own, sending him the tiniest of smiles. He didn’t want to disappoint, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself either. He was already a fool in front of the world. Not that he wasn’t, already. 

Romano tenderly squeezed his hand in turn. It would normally be comforting, but it only made the intense feeling of being watched, mocked, worse. 

“Don’t believe those bastards, they like spreading rumors.” (“I’m sorry I got you involved in this”) A quick peck on the cheek, ignored by the arguing world. He smiled back at the Southern Italian. He stroked the hand, trying to gain back the comfort that used to be from them.

He believed in Romano. He believed. He kept chanting. He’ll think it eventually. He felt comfort again, even if it was so hard to get that comfort. 

[“You knew?!”

“_ Oui _. He had difficulties. He brought it to the attention of Germany. Germany insisted on going through formalities.”

“Russia and I concluded that it had to have been old, aru. Marks and blood were old. Five months old at worst. 4 months at best.”

“Germany insisted on formalities. Not Spain.”

“He’s been gone for that long and Germany said _nothing_? Bollocks!” (“I could buy it! It would be like some revenge! Maybe he chose to wait because he got upset at him for leaving him, then Russia locked Italy in his basement and no one would know!”) “America, quit your drivel.”

“What? It would make sense!”

“_Codswallop_, you sound like a conspiracy theorist! Why would Russia put Italy in his basement? Where do you get these ideas from?" ("Is that even a word?") "Yes it is, you wanker!"

“...It could still work! It makes total sense!”

“I hate to side with _ Angleterre _ , but none of that makes sense. Not even _ I _ could make sense of what you just said.”("Not that codswallop is a word, it sounds nearly as made up as Flying Mint Bunny, ohononon!")

"No one asked for your opinion, bloody frog!"

"We both know you meant wanker, _ Angleterre _. I can show you-"

"Sod off!"]

The mocking in his head made it absolutely difficult to believe so, but the comfort came regardless of the struggle. 

“I believe you, I believe you.” He squeezed back, whispering when he done so. He looked around, the world’ s argument blinded them from the two. He allowed himself the pleasure of nuzzling into the Southern Italian, breathing in the unique smells that he always seemed to have. Dirt, tomatoes, and something else that he couldn’t pinpoint. 

He loved that smell, he missed it.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you as much. Governing a nation by myself...more difficult than I expected.” He ignored the prickling he got with each lie told. “Are you still...sick?”

He smiled. He was close to saying those words. So close. He was terrified of saying them though. He nodded though. “It’s fine, _ mi tomate _, it’s fine.” 

A shared kiss solidified that fact before pulling away. 

His heart pounded, aching for more. He knew it wasn't going to happen, not now. As cold as the Southern Italian seemed to act, he cared for his brother. 

He knew, perhaps, that it wasn't the entire case, but he didn't need to dwell on that. Romano loved Italy. That was that. He was there for that reason, and no other thought would make him disagree. 

He wanted to say those three little words that his mind returned to chant. He needed to hear those words, too. Those three little words would effect him too, no matter how much his thoughts dissuaded him and his fear poked through. 

Spain was a coward, he knew so very clearly that he would have so little time to speak those words. Romano wouldn't stay for him too long, he would return, but it never lasted. 

He just needed to say them, no matter what his thoughts would argue. Those three tiny, insignificant, but not ignorable words needed to be said before the world would notice, before the crushing guilt gnawed at him like it had before.

He finally had Romano to himself. He finally could speak. It was himself to blame for his inability. 

It was inappropriate, so very inappropriate. He could feel the guilt of his actions already crawling into his heart. 

“_ Estoy embarazada _, Romano." He smiled, blushing as he finally said it. It was rushed, but spoken. "I..was waiting to say that to you. I don't know-"

He had to say it, his mind screaming at him to take back the words when his mind caught up to his mouth. It was inappropriate, inconsiderate- it wasn't time yet. He didn't have the courage to face the backlash. 

He had forgotten one, tiny, fatal flaw. One that worked in his favor. "Damn it, _ Spagna _. You know I can't understand you!" He softened despite those words. His blush betrayed his words. "..You know I can't understand your Spanish when you rush it."

Romano didn't know Spanish very well. Conversational, much like Spain was with Italian. Thoughts jumbled in his head, panicking as he done so. 

He had to say it in English. He had to repeat those words again. His mind raced, screaming at him to not to, not yet. Romano eyed him. For the first time in a while, he looked worried. 

A blush crossed his features again. "I'm...its nothing. I'll tell you after the meeting. It's nothing. "

Spain brushed off the thoughts that chided him for saying such a thing. He loved his child, he didn't know exactly what gender his child was or what they looked like, but the subject wasn't nothing. 

They were something, at least, unlike their nothing of a mother. 

Romano shot him a..worried frown before a faint chill crossed their path. He knew it was inappropriate, and it seemed the rest of the world outside the nations thought so too. Spain lowered himself, avoiding the gaze of the biggest, strongest nation that stood quite close to him before he passed as a chill ran down his spine. 

After all these years, Russia still managed to scare the nation, even if he did nothing particularly to him. That drew a smile out of the cold nation, despite being interrupted. 

He deserved that, anyway. His brother was hurting (it was by his hand, no matter what his friends stated) and he was being selfish. It wasn’t the time.

He wasn’t brave enough to say it, anyway. He knew that.

[“...Why do you think I have Italy in my basement? Why does everyone say I put nations in my basement? That is...a weird theory, da?”

“Don’t act innocent, commie bastard!”

“Enough, enough! Stop acting like children! America, stop making up such _ lächerlich _ theories this instant!”]

He glanced at Romano afterwards. Beneath bravado, he knew the Southern Italian was beyond terrified of the Russian. He was shaking so violently that it nearly made him shake. 

It was inappropriate to say anything, he could wait. He had Romano near him and that was enough for him at the moment. (He wouldn’t be there anyway. He’ll accuse you of lying.)

Those thoughts wouldn’t deter him anymore. They were lying. Accusing an innocent man of something that he wouldn’t do. 

He whispered quiet words in Spanish, something he had done in the past to quell the fears the smaller nation had when he was younger. Romano didn’t need to speak to know he had been grateful. He never needed words to validate that.

He almost didn’t catch the weird emotion that, so briefly graced his features that he cared for. 

He didn’t know if he trusted Romano anymore. All he needed to do was believe, though. He didn’t need to trust him. 

For the uptenth time, he forced himself to believe despite his thoughts screaming otherwise. He never wanted to see so much in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Que (What)  
Mi Tomate (my tomato)  
il mio fratellino (my little brother)  
Ehi, ti ho detto che sto arrivando! (Hey, I told you I'm coming!)  
Spagna, che cazzo fai? (Spain, what the fuck are you doing?)  
Oh, ciao Spagna! (Oh, Hi Spain!)  
Qué quieres decor (What do you mean?)  
La Germania non è fedele (Germany's not being faithful)  
Sapevo che non era felice. Voglio solo che sia felice. Fa male. (I knew he wasn't happy. I just want him to be happy. It hurts.)  
non mi ascolterà. Mi fa sembrare pazzo. (Won't listen to me. He makes me sound crazy)  
Ho paura di stare da solo. Qualcuno mi osserva e mi spaventa. (I’m afraid to be alone. Someone watches me, and it scares me.)  
Sono preoccupato che accada qualcosa di brutto, ma nessuno mi prenderà sul serio. Se qualcosa lo fa …(I'm worried something bad will happen, but no one will take me seriously. If something does…)  
Je suis désolé (I'm sorry)  
Sud de l'Italie (South Italy)  
töricht (foolish, stupid)  
armer Kerl (poor guy)  
Mon cher ami (My dear friend)  
Oui (yes)  
Mon cher (my dear)  
Schönen Tag (Good day)  
mon petit frère (my little brother)  
liebte ihn (loved him)  
Qu'est ce que ça veut dire? (What does that even mean?)  
estoy embarazada (I am pregnant)  
lächerlich (ridiculous)  
Codswallop (Nonsense)  
*France is quoting José Saramago from his book Blindness.


	3. Rotto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings from every chapter applies, except Romano and France aren’t in this chapter: Non-con, emotional manipulation, emotional abuse, mentions of punishments, implied child death, m-preg, Kazakhstan’s mouth. Implied threats towards children, etc. 
> 
> Nothing in this chapter is anything I as the writer condone. What italy says is nothing I think. Viewer discretion is advised.
> 
> If something doesn’t sound right, please notify me. I had difficulty uploading this and if something in an area sounds off, it might have been deleted by mistake. Indenting did not work either so, I hope no one minds!
> 
> Kazakhstan is an OC, he is not paired with Russia despite how much is SOUNDS so. Read it as (one sided KazaRuss)
> 
> (On a side note, I was thinking of posting the original story I was writing onto AO3 as an AU because it wasn’t supposed to be this dark- it turned darker later in development. It however, is rather fluffy. Fluffy RusIta, almost no angst Italy. )

**Worthless. Useless. Whore. Dirty. Wrong. Abandoned. **

Italy's tired form screamed in protest as he awoke to the thoughts. It wanted to retaliate against the awakening, but he yawned instead, pushing his legs to the side of the bed, allowing them to dangle. He rubbed his eyes, forcing the sick feeling that forced himself awake to die down. 

It was like clockwork, just like anything else that occurred while he was at Russia’s. He didn’t know how long these repetitions have been around, as he didn’t know how long he had been in the basement. He just knew they began and they never disappeared. He never questioned the clockwork. It just was.

Through that clockwork, he knew it would happen and it would worsen until he listened to it, like it always would. He could feel the twisting of his stomach begin to worsen, but it wasn’t so bad at the moment. It wasn’t much of a break from it, he didn’t have the means to make it stop, but the twisting wasn’t as long lasting. He had time before he would get sick again. His vision cleared from the haze of a dreamless night, like it always did before the thoughts returned again.

**Worthless. Useless. Whore. Dirty. Wrong. Abandoned. **

He recognized those words. He always did. He expected those words. Italy’s thoughts always centered around them, they were part of the repetition. They would grow stronger when the haze of sleep faded, but they always began when he was woken up by his stomach, twisting in painful knots. Of course, his body tried to shame him for it, like it did currently, but he paid it no mind anymore. 

He already had a feeling of the cause, the fluttering only made that suspicion stronger. He could not ignore it how much he tried. 

Fluttering, like little bubbles in his stomach popping, would greet him each time he woke after a while. He didn’t know when that started, either. It just did. They were tiny bursts, two of them in two different areas, but in the same general vicinity. Fluttering that, in turn, that created an unhealthy mixture of guilt and happiness. That fluttering, while never expecting two flutters, he found endearing.

Oh god, he found it endearing. Italy found it incredibly endearing to feel the flutters as he knew exactly what it meant. It meant something that he hadn’t wanted, hadn’t wanted to have with a man like Russia. 

_ Never _ with a man like Russia, but the choice was never an option to begin with, not that he understood his emotions towards the man. Not anymore, which worried the nation. 

When he began to think, he became scared and guilted. Never scared for _ himself _\- he couldn’t die after all. He never did when he should have been killed. 

Guilt from replacement. It was as if he had been replacing one loss with another chance.Or chances, if the flutters had a say. He blamed himself for that. He blamed himself so much that it broke his heart. If he thought deeper, that heart ache only increased.

It was guilt that made him choose to ignore the ignorable. It wasn’t something that the Russian would be able to know. It was the only thing he could potentially hide. 

He could not ignore it no matter how hard he tried. He still tried, even if it’s futile. 

The Northern Italian silently cursed to himself. He got himself into this mess, and the effects of that were his fault. If he hadn't locked himself away, maybe he wouldn't have to feel this way again. He wouldn't be stuck with the idea that was also familiar to him, and he wouldn't feel the guilt that was just as familiar as everything else. 

He wouldn’t be forced to confront that familiar loss and the conflicting emotions that accompanied it. 

Those thoughts were **wrong** , but lately, he couldn't help feeling that way even after the arguments. They were so so **wrong**, but he couldn't counter them. It was as though he instinctively couldn't argue that, not anymore. 

It never surprised him, though. Not anymore. At first, he was surprised by the silence of one of his thoughts. It used to speak up for him, but the voice started dying. Soon, it rarely even spoke at all. It might as well have been silent. He could have chosen words, he could have even tried defending himself from the other thoughts, but he slowly came to the realization that, in the end, it didn’t matter.

He recognized the futility of it as well as the accuracy. Yet, that dying voice still tried to go against that, against the futility of it all.

He wasn’t sure how long that would last.

Not even the dying thought, however, could deny that it was necessary to confront both the familiarity and the loss, even though it cut through the other thoughts that screamed at him how _ selfish _ he was- the Russian loved and supported him, he should tell. Those voices were louder, but the points fell flat. He never confronted it. He never allowed himself to call that loss anything other than loss after that. 

He blamed himself so much so that he couldn’t say the name of the loss; he had no right to say that loss’s name, even though he loved every bit of that loss with every fiber of his being, so much so he tried pretending that the months afterwards weren’t absolute hell and failing so miserably so, because he loved that loss. He loved that loss _ so much _ because he made that loss.

_ He blamed himself for that, too. _

He had to confront it eventually, partially he agreed to that. He couldn’t force himself to confront that loss. He would confront the cause of the sickness and fluttering, but never that loss. He was familiar with this sickness, tiredness, and eventually the fluttering because he's waited weeks to learn the cause, even if he was also well aware of the cause from that same previous experience that resulted in loss in the first place. 

That same experience caused a heartbreak he never experienced, or thought he would never experience. He only had a year to come to terms.

He could still feel the accusations crawling down his back. He took that blame even if he couldn’t do anything to prevent the loss. He took the verbal abuse tossed at him because he deserved it despite how sad he was. 

_ He blamed himself that loss, too. _

It was that same experience that made him hesitant to investigate, even though he had already known to some degree. His hesitance was evident, but he needed to investigate. He agreed to that much. He paused, eyeing the bathroom. He felt his chest dropping. He wanted to ignore it, he wanted to run. 

The sickness crept it's way into his throat to nudge him forward. With another pause, he reluctantly agreed. He didn’t know if it was the sickness getting worse or his nerves making it worse. He took a breath in. 

"Y..You can do it." It was shaky words of encouragement that he whispered to himself. "Ve, it's alright. It's fine. " He gave a shaky grin to himself.

He didn’t believe it, of course, but it was still encouraging to some degree.

He just had to force himself to walk. That was simple, he could do that. He eyed the floor before sliding off the bed. His bare feet met with the cold linoleum floor. With a final push, he found himself walking with a confidence that he falsified towards the room. Bravado only matched by Romano. 

He wanted to go back. His thoughts swirled, but he forced himself to look forward. Each step closer, the harder it was to force himself to continue. Many parts of him tried to get him to go back to the safety of the bed, the safety of ignorance. He had to force himself to push forward even if it meant he would be forced to know. He didn’t want to confirm it, but he agreed to himself that he had to. 

Italy was used to using his whispers to fill the prison morphing slowly into a home of sorts. It was a dark, silent, prison and it was that silence that he started to not stand. Even with the wrong words being tossed, at least the Russian made comforting noises. He removed the silence and nothingness. While there were talks that brought nations over, they were muffled and only brought momentary relief. He could speak louder than a whisper, the Russian hadn't forbade him from doing so, during contemplation, he started to do so less and less. He reserved louder talks for when he drew or read. In times of contemplation, whispers felt far safer. 

It was a lie, of course, that the Russian couldn’t hear him. He always had, he had a tendency to know everything he did, but whispers felt far safer. It was a silly comfort otherwise. All to remove that silence. He hated feeling at ease with the one country he knew was breaking and using his body. He hated the desire to have the Russian sleep near him to avoid that silence and loneliness.

Of course, the Russian would agree regardless, but that didn’t matter as he shouldn’t feel so comfortable in the first place.He eyed the bathroom’s contents. Hesitation once again. He needed to. He agreed to. 

He whispered more encouragement again that he didn't believe. "Veneziano. You can't ignore it forever. You need to get your ass up and face it." He took a breath before he managed to make it in. That encouragement wasn't originally his in the first place, borrowed from another. 

He remembered where that encouragement originally came from. Those were from Romano. He gave a small smile at the thought before it quickly vanished. That day, Romano had been annoyed at the Northern Italian. He and a handful of nations knew of the loss before that was their name, he being the first to know. Romano had all but fumed at the nation. He knew what Romano thought at the time. It had been words of encouragement from the Southern Italian at the time as he knew it was difficult for him to express himself.

He was a fool to think that, though.It was comforting before the scandal, before the world looked at him with pity. Romano knew, he knew because he was there. He didn’t know how long the cheating took place. Never knew exactly, never learned because he never wanted to know. 

Had he done so, knowing he-? He muffled a cry. He wasn't aware that he had cried out, either.

Why did he choose _ Romano _ when it came to encouragement? Why Romano? Some words of wisdom he gave. 

He tried to ignore that loss as it hurt more and more to think of it- his thoughts were conflicting, but he was scared of facing another loss especially. That endearing fluttering that he would feel that he would remember, would create a heartbreak he couldn't remove himself from like before, and it would only result in more pain, instead from the Russian. 

He was scared that if he didn't have another loss, he would still mess up somehow, that he wouldn't give that chance the world. He didn't want to ruin something so innocent. He wanted the chance (really, chances) to do so much. He wasn't good enough for that. 

Most of all, he was scared of the repercussions. If he found out in any other way but from him, or if another loss would take place- he didn't want to think what would happen. 

_ More loss, _ he figured bitterly. In the end, he didn't want to acknowledge the very real possibility of being tied to the Russian indefinitely. If he admitted it, then he would never be free, he could never leave. He knew what his own citizens thought of people that became like him. The repulsion, he knew, would force an action against him regardless of what happened. He would always remain a prisoner. 

He didn't want to have these chances with Russia. _ Never _ a man like Russia. He never had that choice, though. 

The new thoughts that gave him the chills broke through- it was so **wrong** , so very **wrong**. 

_ You'll be _ ** _useful_ ** _ , you'll be worth something to someone. _ It was a sickeningly sweet thought that made him scared of himself. It would bubble up in his chest when the Russian would step down the stairs, with each touch it would strengthen. It crawl from his chest and whisper into his head those **wrong** words he didn't believe in, not aloud. _ You'll finally be _ ** _worth_ ** _ something to someone, even if you need to endear a bruise or two (or more) in the process. Don't you want to be _ ** _useful_ ** _ , to be of value? _ It made it a point to punctuate certain key points in its arguments. 

_ If it meant that you could finally be _ ** _loved_ ** _ , _ it reasoned logically, _ none of it would matter in the end. Your comfort doesn't trump your _ ** _use_ ** _ . _ That argument sounded incredibly **wrong** to the nation. His very being would shake at it's very core at the notion instinctively. His very being disagreed with the points that the ever growing voice would point out, but he couldn't stop himself from silently agreeing to the points that were made despite feeling so **dirty** , so **wrong** for doing so.

It was as though that voice, so non threatening, made him a prisoner all over again. He didn't like that voice, he never did. 

He was so scared of his own thoughts it was pathetic. Maybe the other nations had been right after all. He was a **weak** country, so **weak** even his thoughts could scare him.

_ He could protect you, you know. You are too _ ** _weak_ ** _ , you won’t survive if he _ ** _abandoned_ ** _ you. It would be selfish, _ that voice continued, _ to deny that. _ The Northern Italian didn't disagree. He reluctantly agreed that he was a **weak, useless ** country despite how **wrong** it felt. 

He had to agree even with that **wrongness**. 

"I'm okay, I'm okay." It was a lie. He lacked the courage to do it. His vision was clear but as he fumbled, reaching down for a hidden, near dusty box he discovered the first time he was able to reach it, he found himself blind. His mind couldn't catch up to what he was physically doing as he fumbled. His memory had been fuzzy, but he recalled the box from somewhere. He looked at it, piecing information together without realizing he had been doing so. 

Oh, America. Christmas gag gift to Russia. There had been some mix up during the war and translation errors caused condoms to be given to the American by accident. How long did the American hold onto that annoyance for? How did he manage to remember something like that? 

He snapped up, his breathing quickened. He dropped something. He dropped something and that something was loud. Not incredibly so, but it broke the safety he felt. 

Not good- he had to think of a good reason he had been loud. He had to, he didn’t want him to think he was hiding it for too long because then the Russian would get angry. He would experience that loss and-

He couldn’t get himself to quiet down, nor could he get himself to stop the panicked thoughts from entering his mind and wrecking it. It was as though alarm bells filled his ears, clogging up his own hearing as he fumbled. He knew it wasn’t so very loud, but that didn’t matter as his hands fumbled, opening the box that- if the American had seen it, he would laugh at because it indicated things that didn’t matter to the Northern Italian at the moment. 

It was quick, or maybe it was just his mind finally catching up that made it seem quick. He had to wait. He didn’t read it, but he knew there was a wait period. He had to wait and he didn’t know if he could look at it if he waited. He shook, placing the device down on the sink. 

His stomach made him fully aware of the fact he had been sick as it chose to give him a moments notice before he felt himself wretch into the black bag. It hurt more than he expected, even when he braced himself, it hurt. 

The thoughts he had wished for the Russian to be there. It was **wrong** , even in his haze of panic it was **wrong**, but the steadily growing thoughts disagreed. Russia had typically known when he was sick. Sometimes, that would mean he would help him afterwards. For some reason, a rub on the back soothed him regardless of the person doing it. He always thanked him, of course. He appreciated that- it made him feel better. He was sure he would feel better with him there, again. 

That was **wrong**, it scared him, but he couldn’t help it. He forced those thoughts away. 

Minutes passed before he checked the device, the bag removed and replaced before he bothered to check. It was the answer he expected. He expected that answer, knowing what he felt. 

That didn’t mean processing it was any easier. Holding onto the device was like he had been handcuffed permanently. 

He was forced to deal with the idea that the chances could turn to losses, the confronting feelings, and everything in between. He didn’t want to experience that loss again, the looks of pure accusations. 

It was **wrong** , he knew it, but he didn’t want Russia to **abandon** him. The thoughts that steadily grew louder stayed silent momentarily before they spoke up, forcing him to acknowledge, at least silently, that he agreed with them. He had heard that dying thought chide him in the back of his mind, but it couldn’t argue well enough. He didn’t want to have him leave because of a loss, and he didn’t want to see him eyeing him with such contempt for it, either. 

He felt himself tear up, tears welling at the corners of his eyes before he brushed them off.

The Northern Italian would be alone. He would hate him for that loss, even if it wasn't his fault. He would hurt him, but he wouldn't do so as much as he did to himself. 

_ He would end up taking the blame, too. Because then it would be his fault. _

He scrambled as he pushed the box back in its hidden corner- he was sure the Russian wouldn’t have noticed it regardless, but he couldn’t be too careful. He didn't want the possibility of getting hurt through sheer incompetence at a task so simple like this. He frowned at the cursed device. He didn’t know where to put it. 

Italy was a weak nation. Surrendering was very necessary for his survival. Blabbing a surrender when he was scared was something he did first and foremost to not get hurt. That wasn't an option, of course. Surrendering still lead to events that he couldn't erase. If he couldn't surrender or explain, he had no options. He couldn’t hide it on his person, as he was sure the Russian would’ve already known. Russia had a tendency to know what he was doing. 

What would another nation do? What could another nation do? He glared at the device. He was stupid, he was, because he didn’t know how to stop himself from panicking, didn’t know how to hide it. If it was Britain or even France, he was sure that they could have figured out something by now.

They weren't as stupidly pathetic as he was, after all. He knew they had that uncanny ability since WW1. 

He snapped to attention, his eyes flicking to the door. He didn't know how long he had until he would hear those footsteps. He didn't know the mood he would be in, either. 

Italy knew that he would later get punished. He would be punished later if he wasn't in the upcoming session. Russia never made it clear when he would forgive or when he would start a punishment. He made sure he had been good- he wanted to be good, even if it meant his very being had been repulsed by the idea of being good for the Russian. 

He had to be ready for the Russian, he had to be there. Fast, if he was close. He hadn't heard the footsteps, but he had been wrong before. If Russia noticed his absence, he’d assume the worst, that would become his worst, too. 

Quickly, he did something he knew would harm him long term in the end. His shaky hands pushed the device to the back, closer to the box than necessary. A part of him cried out how stupid he had been for attempting to hide it. He experienced punishments for less than that. He didn’t want to experience a punishment again. He tried to be good enough to not deserve that. 

He couldn’t hide it- he just needed to tell him before he caught on. Even if he wouldn’t accept it, maybe he’d be more lenient with it. He tried repeating words and whispers, trying to give himself the courage to go one with it. 

He didn't look at himself anymore, he didn't want to look at himself and the wrongness that ravaged it. The Northern Italian didn't need to look to know that it was visible. It wasn't incredibly visible, but it was noticeable. He could simply feel that. He didn’t know if Russia would take into account the hidden box- if he knew it was there. He wanted to be careful, though. 

A punishment wouldn’t be necessary, then. 

You're putting yourself at unnecessary risk, the voice cried out, your putting- He didn't let the voice continue. For once, he made it shut up. He knew he was in trouble, he didn't need to be reminded of it. For once he didn't need to be reminded of how stupid he was being. 

He was too scared to let it speak. 

It was faster than he typically ever had been when it came to cleaning either himself or anything up from adrenaline. Once he was positive that everything looked in order enough for just right then, he left the confining space of the bathroom and went back to the bed. He plopped onto the sheets as the adrenaline started to fade

He sighed, his tired form reminding him that he pushed his limits. The Northern Italian winced once he became aware of it himself. It was exhausting, he could feel the aches of his legs and arms, commanding him to sleep. 

Russia made the basement prison construct closer to a home as of late. He had entertainment, but his mind told him to worry instead. Too tired to fall asleep, instead forced to think things he’d rather not think.

Like the fact he was, officially, a permanent resident and all the confusing emotions that came with it. He was forever tied down to the Russian through the chances he hadn’t expected to occur at all, all without an option to escape. Italy mentally recoiled at the bluntness. 

He didn’t argue it, though. He was tied, a union would be made and he would never be free. Russia has never made mention of such a union, perhaps he thought he was too **dirty** for a union, but he could simply feel it approaching closer. With how close their countries were in many ways, he doubted anyone would object. The image of the two being in marriage attire made him bristle. 

He was **dirty**, there wouldn’t be moral objections. 

Would he ever be able to venture outside? Would he never feel the wind again, see the stars? He forced himself up at the thoughts, pushing away the tears. He missed his country the most. He missed the smell of the sea, the sun shimmering on the canals. He missed the fresh smells.

Would he ever be allowed to be in his own country again? 

He whimpered softly. He was tied. Very much so. The hope of freedom, while still present, had diminished in number. He could be freed, but the chances he would have with the Russian would be ultimately tested. 

If he wasn’t broken down, perhaps he would have recognized that many countries that would potentially disagree with his thoughts.

He did not. 

The Northern Italian didn’t have time to think of the implications of those thoughts, of any implication. His eyes instantly drifting to the wall. He had perked up at the muffled sounds that wafted into the basement, making him ignore the thoughts of previous at the moment. He heard soft footsteps- it wasn’t the Russian’s. His eyes widened. A visitor, and it was unlike the others that passed in the home. 

He pushed himself up, straining himself in order to hear. There were only two voices he heard this time, he noted. One he recognized as Russia, of course, but the other he still couldn’t piece together.

Russian, he cursed. It wasn't common that he had guests over that spoke fluent Russian- while there were a few times that he heard both Ukraine and Belarus speak it, it wasn't very common even among them. This was a new, male voice though. Potentially a nation, that spoke Russian. He couldn’t make out the words, not that he cared to. He didn’t need to know the words to know the nation. 

“_ Oh Dio. _” He felt himself slide down back to the plush of the bed again.

Kazakhstan- he had worked with that nation before. Italy had been trading partners with the nation recently, his boss even building an embassy in recent years for them to meet.* He hadn't known the largest land-locked nation long despite that, but he did know that the nation scared him. ******8

He heard the rumors that spiraled between the two nations- in hindsight, it made sense it was Kazakhstan. He knew he had been close to Russia, though not as close to him as he was with Turkey. ***They had similar personalities, more than Italy would care to admit, and they shared quite a bit with each other. The Asian country had a sizable trade agreement with the Russian with a decent population****. That was if he was correct, of course. He hadn’t been near the country in a while, and the details grew fuzzier the longer he sat in the basement. 

There were details that he did remember. One being that he had always been scared of the nation and another being that the other loathed him. The Kazakhstani nation loathed Italy on his own accord despite being good politically. It didn’t matter how much the Italian seemed to try, he would always be cold to him. Something to do with centuries old conflict between the Italian and Turkey that didn’t exist anymore. 

Nations were people, too, as confusing as the nation happened to be.

The Northern Italian grew tense before feeling chest stop momentarily. He found himself pressed against the headboard of the bed, hugging his knees while doing so without thought. His eyes drew to the door as he heard one set of familiar footsteps, then another he could safely call Kazakhstan’s. 

_ "Per favore no..per favore no.." . _

He saw the light coming from the door first and foremost before he recognized the Russian descending down the stairs. He gave a small smile as he saw the Russian silently giving him an apologetic glance before he turned to the Kazakhstani.

It was a comforting gesture, no matter how wrong it felt to be comforted by that gesture 

“I...wouldn't bring anyone down here if I could help it. My friend had..made a point, however, that I couldn't overlook. Multiple- but you worried me. I worry you might be sick. I..would rather see you alright. I promise you that he won’t harm you.” The Russian turned back to Italy. He didn't force the Italian from his position like he expected the nation to do. Instead, big arms lifted him up and onto his lap, allowing him to still cover his midsection and chest while doing so. Italy felt the Russian muzzle him from behind. "I would never let someone touch you that isn't me, not if I can help it. _ YA lyublyu tebya, Mota Italiya _. You're mine and mine alone, you know that. "

He bristled. He knew that, he always had been reminded of that fact. With what he learned, he knew it was always going to be. He held hope to escape, like he always did, but the light of that hope seemed to fizzle away the more he stayed.

No one would force him to be with the country once they learned, not outwardly so. He knew they would be repulsed if he hadn't. 

Italy hummed in response to his words.

If Kazakhstan had been offended, he never expressed it. "I did not force anything upon the nation." It was simple, blunt. That nation tended to love to be blunt, even if what he was saying had been long-winded. "I heard much from Russia.” He glared at Italy before he dared to continue, as though simply being near him was a difficult task.He had deliberately chosen to ignore the Italian.

“You were sick for a while, I heard. I cannot understand your attraction towards him, even though it’s evident you care deeply. (Italy’s health, however, is not my concern. I could care less.) I am highly honored you think so highly of me. Not many countries heard, I am proud that I was one of 3 nations not in the G8 chosen to know. " He hadn't moved from the top of the stairs, though the door had closed behind him for a while. He was well aware of the nation's quirks. The Kazakhstani had always had a tendency to overanalyze anything. He liked detail. 

“I do not want to touch you outside what I must do, _ shlyukha _. I would rather not touch you in that way. I would rather not catch the stupid.” Kazakhstan added with a roll of the eyes. “You are important to Russia. I insisted only for Russia. Your health is necessary for future plans that cannot be stalled."

"Eh, Russia?" Italy peered over his shoulder to the Russian. His confused expression caused a giggle. If he hadn't been used to it, he would have been scared of that giggle. 

When did he start being less afraid of that? 

Russia smiled at him, pecking his cheek with a kiss. He never stopped him, even when he was fully awake. It was easier to allow a kiss than to get punished for disallowing it. "You forgot already?" He asked, pausing in thought. "I suppose it's been a while. (2 months ago, drunk at that. I doubt I ever went into extensive detail.) Spain became nosey and broke into your home. He found the mess you left behind- he had been adamant about what he saw with Romano."

Italy squeaked as he felt the nation move, almost hugging him. He felt his legs slipping from his arms' hug when he done so as if he couldn't hold on any longer. 

Disappointment radiated from the Russian when he spoke that only seemed to be staved off by embracing the Italian. He didn't struggle against it, either, 

He almost...welcomed the hug. Russia made him feel...reassured. **Loved**, cared for. 

He felt as though he had worth when he was with the Russian. It was wrong, he knew it was wrong, but something told him that he wanted to continue to have that feeling of worth. 

"Wait, he brought Romano?" Italy felt his heart drop. As upset as he felt towards his brother, Spain hadn’t done him wrong. The guilt he carried, even when he hadn’t been kidnapped, had weighed on him. He never had the courage to tell Spain. It wasn’t important to dwell on that, it was the first thought he thought of, but it left enough of a sour taste for him to think it necessary. “I never told him..I should have, but I couldn't."

He saw him at the conference, he wanted to speak it. If Romano hadn't been there, the nerve would have instead. 

Instead, he closed his mouth. It was instinctual, as though there had been a distinct threat that made him stop. 

He had been so cowardly that day. 

Russia frowned and tilted his head. For a brief moment, confusion was evident before he understood. “Spain...is an odd country. I doubt he would listen. When meeting was held, I could see that he was unwell. The G8 meeting…proved as much. It is easy to notice actions when you are..away from people. Delusion. Neither you or I could have made him face actions that he wants to not notice.”

Italy mused that before nodding to allow the country to continue his previous thoughts. If the Russian had been upset that he disrupted, he hadn’t shown it. 

"The G8 meeting had been..a mess, for lack of a better word. Arguments, accusations- it was pleasant, albeit disorganized. Other than a few...notable, discussions, the agency- the lack thereof, had been of concern to some notable members. To note, however, there is no denying the rumors that made mention of Germany’s intentions. The atmosphere had been clear that they doubted his judgments.” Russia, in his position, played with the Italian’s hands while doing so. It distracted the Italian enough to ignore the building ache in his chest that threatened to burst. 

“Rumors?’”

“Germany intentionally waited far too long because he doubted Spain’s account. There are some more agreed upon theories, none of it concrete." He spoke carefully, as if he planned those words out. "Either way, there..is agreed upon thought that Romano didn't..disagree, either. Its unfortunate. I don't understand how some nations think. Why would anyone want to **abandon** you like that? Why would anyone care so little that your well being meant nothing?"

He didn't wait for an answer. "I don’t mind it, da.” He could feel the Russian- he recognized that feeling because it was such a common feeling. If Kazakhstan hadn’t been there, he would feel it far more than he ever wanted to experience. “It gives me..time to find out circumstances. You’re mine, of course, but I want others to know that as well. Don’t concern yourself, I’ll make sure everything will be alright.”

Italy pressed himself against the Russian. Hope had diminished to near nothing with just an explanation. He didn't know if the Russian had been truthful, in fact, he heard the Russian had a tendency to implant false information. He heard this accusation being made by countless other nations. None louder than the American and surprisingly the Frenchman. 

Something told him that he had been right despite how the near silent thought tried to argue. Was he so worthless that no one cared enough to care about his absence?

Had no one cared that he was hurting, or was he simply that **useless** that no one wanted someone like him? 

Someone so disgustingly **dirty. A whore.**

Then he felt it, those piercing eyes staring at him, examining him. 

“He is correct to assume that circumstances can be altered. There is time.” The Kazakhstani interrupted. “Your country needs two to operate functionally. We have not considered that until recently.”

If he had been another nation, he would have sarcastically remarked at that. No, he was Italy, and he was terrified of the staring nation. 

Kazakhstan had been staring at the Italian for a while, he noted, so reminiscent of Russia. He narrowed his eyes before descending finally, his eyes still locked on the hugged nation as if they couldn't leave him. 

“_ Russia? Vy pokorili etu natsiyu? _ ” He Questioned before harshly touching his midsection. Italy bristled, instinctively wrapping his arms around his stomach at that. He stopped, dark brown eyes finally meeting honey ones with a mixture of curiosity, disgust, and coldness. “ _ Nevazhno, pokhozhe, ty byl ... zanyat. YA vizhu eto. _ I expected as much- if your display had been accurate of your everyday life.”

Russian, he recalled. He didn't recognize any of the words that were spoken outside of the switch to English. Perhaps that had been the entire point, though.

Russia eyed Kazakhstani, confusion lacing his features. “_ O chem ty govorish'? _ ” He spoke carefully, pausing briefly. Disbelief was present, even if he didn't know what was spoken. “ _ On ... pokazyvayet? Eto to, chto vy namekayete?” _

Kazakhstan didn't speak for a moment. He could feel the nation looking through him before he did answer. “_ Vy ne mozhete skazat' _?” He shivered at the coldness he had gave off. "Did you not notice? It is..obvious."

Italy could feel the silence. Neither nation tried to lift it. He didn't need to be told the Russian understood as he could feel the realization dawning from him. Big arms pushed past his weak ones so easily, examining his midsection by force. They were so gentle, it made guilt appear in his thoughts, chiding him for being so scared. 

He hoped that Russia hadn't known- he hoped that Russia had figured something else out. He wanted to tell him, himself. If his fear was unwarranted, it stayed. 

If he did know, by Kazakhstan now instead, he knew he would get punished. 

He felt himself be turned. There wasn't much force behind it, he hadn't known if it had been due to his discovery or due to simply being so tired there hadn't been a need to put that much effort into it. Russia's face had been unreadable as he looked him over. 

The Northern Italian gave a tired smile to the Russian without fully being aware of it. He could salvage it. The thought gave a quiet nudge of agreement, ignoring the fear that would otherwise have been radiating off him in waves. He kissed the Russian’s nose before finding himself laying on top of him. His head buried in his chest. 

He hadn’t been aware of himself doing that, either. Russia pulled him close, the Italian could feel the warmth radiating from him. 

He hoped that Russia wasn’t mad at him. He sincerely hoped that. 

"_ Pomnite nashu diskussiyu? Eto ... neudachnoye obstoyatel'stvo bylo potentsial'nym rezul'tatom." _ Kazakhstan cleared his throat, disgust lacing his features as he attempted to interrupt the two. Italy tensed up instinctively, his broken form shaking as he done so. 

"_ Mi dispiace! Mi dispiace!" _

He saw the aura Russia had been famous for, and it absolutely terrified the Italian. The Russian gave a quick apologetic look, noticing the fear, but it didn’t quell it. It might not have been directed at him, but that did stop him from pleading.

The Russian rubbed his back, a glare evident- he could feel it. 

Kazakhstan didn't appear fazed by it though, simply waving the nation off as if it meant particularly nothing to him. He had, with the patience of a saint, managed to hold back choice words towards the blubbering captive. "_ On neset vash naslednik. Bespoleznaya shlyukha potentsial'no neset v sebe naslednikov bliznetsov Istoriya simptomov i razmerov ukazyvayet na etot ochen' trevozhnyy potentsial." _ The intensity of the aura had worsened, but the land-locked country ignored it like before. He absentmindedly twirled his cinnamon colored hair as if the aura didn't exist at all. " _ Nesmotrya na obosnovannoye predpolozheniye, eto boleye chem ne veroyatno. Kazhetsya, yemu uzhe chetyre mesyatsa, khotya dvizheniya net. Sudya po tyazhesti i srokam prisutstviya simptomov, on blizhe k trem mesyatsam. Dal'neysheye rassledovaniye yavlyayetsya obyazatel'nym.” _

The aura disappeared, as if it hadn’t been there at all. “We talked before, circumstances have changed. We need to discuss those circumstances further. You are a trusted friend, I do not want you in trouble for loving a shlyukha. It would not sit right with me” Kazakhstan turned away, closing in on the stairs while doing so. His features softened before he turned again, the cold mask slipping just a little. “I can tell you want to exchange words. Those circumstances can be discussed tomorrow.”

Italy looked up, peering just in time to see his smile. “Thank you, I appreciate you helping me, my friend. You didn’t have to, but you chose to aid me. I appreciate that.”

The Kazakhstani softly smiled. “You’re my friend, I would go through anything to make sure you are alright.” He gave one last look towards both nations. “Besides, what would you do without me? My connections will prove valuable- I can tell your thoughts.” 

An unexpected, tiny, laugh coming from the nation startled the Italian. “_ Proshchay poka. _” The nation left, closing the door behind him quietly when doing so. The light briefly appearing before disappearing as quick again. 

With his departure, that left him alone with Russia. Italy eyed the Russian, waiting for him to do something, anything. Those conflicting thoughts came back briefly.

He braved himself for Russia’s dissatisfaction. That never came, though. Russia slowly reached out, touching his midsection like before, but his face became readable. 

He was...happy. His purple eyes sparked in a way he never saw them once do. No maliciousness was found in those eyes. 

“Two, two of them.That is..unexpected, not unwelcome, but unexpected.” Italy mentally sighed in relief before the reality dawned on him. He noticed. Kazakhstan told him, and while he might be placated now, it meant nothing later. He would be punished later, even if it meant it wasn’t through physical abuse. “I was worried you were sick. You don’t know how worried I was...I am beyond relieved to know you aren’t sick.”

Italy took this as a chance to make whatever punishment he would receive be more lenient than before. He placed his hands over the other’s, a blush forming by instinct alone. “I..wish you could feel it, too.” He rubbed his hands, more for soothing himself than the Russian. “Ve, it feels like tiny bubbles bursting, like fluttering.I thought I was sick because I felt two of them. I wanted to tell you, but I only learned after I found something from under the sink-“

He was stopped by a kiss, tasting a faint trace of Chai from the Russian. He didn’t fight it, either. Big hands pulled him closer, gentler than he ever expected them to be. The chain link tether clinked as he felt himself get gently pushed back- that had been something he did expect, however.

There were actions, like clockwork, that were bound to repeat. Italy knew that it would happen, it always did happen. He felt a heaviness on him, not as heavy as it normally would be (most likely from the recent news), but he felt it nonetheless. Invasive hands touched places he didn’t want the Russian to touch, like they always did. He knew when the Russia would force that on him, too. Forcing him to feel that sensation, the very real sensation of pushing and pumping that he did not consent to as he tried using quickened, incoherent words to stave off the inevitable sensation of **wrongness**. He would reciprocate like he had done so many times before, but that wasn’t from his own choice, like always. 

This was no exception. Everything worked like clockwork. There was one difference, however, that startled and scared him immensely:

The **dirtiness** wasn’t as strong anymore. He felt **wrong** , he knew it was **wrong** , but why didn’t he feel more **wrong** anymore?

—

Italy had woken up-or as close to waking up as he could if one could call a dreamless night 'sleeping'- with an overwhelming sensation of dread. It had been what felt like weeks since his encounter with Kazakhstan, and the pit of his stomach decided to do acrobatics in ways he hadn't thought possible afterwards, of all times. 

**Worthless. Useless. Whore. Dirty. Wrong. Abandoned. **

The clockwork repetitions were so common, they no longer hurt him in that way. It lacked the surprise and shock necessary to twist his stomach anymore. Not even his (known) sickness and flutters that greeted him made his stomach commit to acrobatics. He touched his midsection instinctively- no, the conflict hadn't started yet, and the Russian gave him something to calm the sickness after learning the cause, something he of course appreciated to bits. It couldn't cause dread like that, not yet. 

He yawned, stretching when doing so before catching the smell of recently cooked food. If he hadn't been in the basement, he perhaps would be just as picky as he had been when he had been occupied by Austria. Even if he had been picky, something about his food made him less so. Maybe that was what the flutters caused, he hadn't known. However, he couldn't deny that the smell of kasha, fried eggs, toast, and coffee was incredibly tempting. They were in larger portion than usual, not by much, but noticeable regardless. 

As he ate, those thoughts began to trickle in. For a brief moment, he had been forced to picture himself in a dress. It came from nowhere, without prompting so much so it nearly startled him. He couldn't stave those thoughts off, they simply worsened as anxiety trickled into his heart. 

When will it spring on him that he would be forced to do so? If the Russian had been..correct, the nations hadn't found him, weren't even close to. If he thought more, it would be his fault. They would be needlessly worried, in their eyes, by a nation like him. 

He would blame himself, too. He did, in fact. He finished before long, he couldn't enjoy the meal- he didn't get to enjoy meals as much anymore, but that was clockwork. Just like clockwork, he cleaned. It gave him some semblance of control. 

"I thought I would check up on you." Italy jolted at the voice. 

What was not clockwork repetition had been Kazakhstan visiting so early, alone. Russia and Kazakhstan, he noticed, had been in talks like he expected them to be, but the length of the talks was surprising as his visit. He didn't understand what they were saying, as they both spoke in Russian, but it had been lengthy. He turned, facing the nation that scared him. If he hadn't finished cleaning and the dishes hadn't been neatly in a makeshift drying rack he made, combined by materials he managed to forage from finally being put on a longer tether, he would have potentially dropped the plates. 

He stared at the dark eyed nation for a moment, unable to remove the confusion lacing his features. "Do I really need to make it obvious, Ïä?" 

Italy didn't know when Kazakhstan got there- he briefly wondered if he had gotten that ability from Russia or if he simply was too lost in thought to hear the footsteps. He didn't have time to ponder that, though. 

"Russia is very dear to me. Almost as much as Turkey does, something you know too well, or so I heard." Italy flinched. "You know that, don't you? prefer removing pleasantries typically. I prefer to stay practical, sensible. I, however, am getting off topic. I hope that doesn't bother you, Ïä?"

_ "S-Si?" _ Italy squeaked out. "Y-You made that clear, _ si _."

Kazakhstan glared him down, scowling in the process. The Northern Italian shuddered. He knew that the Kazakhstani shouldn't be as threatening as he was- he was much shorter than him**after all, but what he lacked in stature, he lacked in ferocity and determination. 

He decidedly did not want to face that wrath, not that he had much of a choice, after all. 

"N-No, _ mi dispiace, _ it doesn't bother me. (Please don't hurt me)." Kazakhstan's glare died down, but his scowl stayed in place, deepening at the sight of the Italian. 

"Good, good. " Kazakhstan cleared his throat, patting down his messy cinnamon colored hair. It was normally prim and proper, to see it in a state other than that meant he felt unease. "As you know, I care for Russia deeply. I do not think I need to prove that to you, _ shlyukha _. I don't understand why he wanted to...why he chose you to love particularly." His face twisted, as though he wanted to say something different, but he knew better otherwise. The land locked country deliberately chose to ignore the original thought before he continued. "He was rather adamant that it had to have been you. I can't fathom why." 

The nation rolled his eyes. "Russia is my friend, but his decisions on love, they elude me. I suppose it matters not. He chose you." Kazakhstan shrugged. "He chose you, _ shlyukha _ , and you should be honored by that decision. He is..a special man, do not disappoint, _ Ïtalïya _."

The land-locked nation returned to glaring the Italian down. The Italian in question squirmed under that glare, pushing himself back. It was instinctive that he protected himself by covering his midsection with his arms. Kazakhstan didn't make an inch towards him in a threatening manner, but with each shiver of cold the nation unleashed, he couldn't make that instinct disappear. 

"I do not appreciate the way you have been with him, I can never appreciate that. He is a special individual and I will never tolerate your actions against him. Do not think otherwise. You are..precious to my dear friend. I loathe you, but being respectful of him, I (cannot) will not harm you, for now, Ïä."

Kazakhstan drew closer, nearly face to face with Italy, his face reverted to his normally stoic face despite what he whispered. "I'll make sure that they will have a bad time if you harm him, do not test me. Do not doubt me. I will make sure they will never be at ease. I promise you that." 

For the first time in a long time, the Northern Italian felt that poison again course through his body. That anger and resentment slowly bubbled, almost fizzing over. It wasn't the same anger that he felt towards Romano and Germany, it was something else entirely. As though it came directly from a protective instinct, and it would refuse to yield in the face of fear. 

Kazakhstan's eyes widened at the Italian's anger, his skin bruising and, in one place bleeding from the near iron grip that the Italian had. Surprise crossed his features along with something unrecognizable as he, surprisingly, found himself struggling against that grip. "You came across as rather pathetic when we were at our meetings. I did not expect you to have some fight. I thought the nations were correct in their assessment of you, _ shlyukha _. You always did come across as pathetic. Who knew one such as yourself could be rather stubborn?" Kazakhstan barely managed to remove his arm from the grip. Upon inspection, his arm had far more damage from just the grip than previously thought. 

"_ Vaffanculo _." His mind didn't catch up with him, if it did, he wouldn't have said anything at all. He wouldn't be glaring, not caring that his hand had accumulated cuts and bruises. 

It refused to yield to the land-locked nation. 

A small smile graced the Kazakhstani's features. That unrecognizable emotion shown through those dark brown eyes once more. "Nations spoke of you as though you were a coward. You are a pathetic nation, **weak, useless** , but your fire is..admirable. You are impressively stubborn despite characteristics you display. I dislike admitting that I must admire your..resilience. You are very resilient, _ shlyukha _." 

The Northern Italian's glare didn't die down. 

"You are breaking. He is eating away at your defenses. I noticed that. You are resilient, but you are not immune. You will break soon. Your resiliency will be usefully placed elsewhere. I wanted to let you know my opinion before my talk with Russia begins. Circumstances have changed in his plans. I will make sure they run smoothly. "

Italy didn't respond to the thinly veiled threat. He would not give him the satisfaction of being correct. The poison wouldn't allow for that-the only blessing it had. 

The Kazakhstani turned away, climbing the steps. Before he opened the door, he turned his head to look back briefly. His features were softer than normal before he faced forward once again. "I can see why you are important to him now, _ shlyukha _, don't make me think otherwise."

He wished his experience with Kazakhstan had been the cause of the dread. Something told him, however, that it wasn't. The dread made itself present once more, silently but surely. As the poison of anger faded into nothing, he found the source of that dread.

He hadn't expected it to be in the form of a manilla envelope. He didn’t see the land-locked country place it down on the table, then again, he never heard the nation walk down the stairs in the first place. 

Kazakhstan had been close to the Russian, it would have not been a stretch to assume it was delivered for him, either. Still, something told him it had been directly from the Kazakhstani, but he didn't know if it had been the case, truthfully. 

Both nations were dangerously terrifying. It could have been from either and it wouldn't have mattered to the Italian. It simply meant he knew the person responsible, not that he had an option to not open it. Still, he preferred knowing than not. 

Apprehension crossed his features. Italy didn't know what to make of it. His thoughts spoke of the punishment he still had yet to fully receive. Italy shuddered at the thoughts. If it had been a punishment, nothing good would be in that envelope. Nothing good came from the Russian not saying saying anything. 

He had no choice but to open it, he knew he couldn't hide the fact he didn't open it. The Russian always knew, so much so that he started to believe the American's words of warning with how much he tended to know. 

He still didn't want to. The dying thought managed to creep back into his head to scream vehemently to ignore the manilla envelope. Russia night not have been the cause of the envelope, after all. He might not have needed to open it after all. 

He couldn't convince himself that. He had to protect them. He wouldn't create another loss, not when he could play into the hands of his jailer to prevent that loss from happening all over again, no matter how **wrong** that sounded to the Italian. 

Then he wouldn't need to blame himself for a new loss. 

The dread was perverse when it came to his thoughts. It was fear that conflicted him and made it near impossible to touch it. 

He only knew that something in his soul told him that it was **wrong** . It caused dread without being well known, **wrong**. He paused, looking at the stairs suspiciously for a moment before eyeing the envelope. 

He carefully picked up the envelope, feeling it at first to gauge the contents before reluctantly opening it entirely. Only a stack of papers were in the envelope along with a few photos that found themselves falling on the linoleum flooring. He briefly looked at the photos that fell, but he didn't bother to pick them up. Those photos didn't matter.

His eyes were forced onto the text, as if captivated by whatever was written, but never in a good manner. 

The Northern Italian found himself unable to read the pages anymore. Something made it near impossible to. He blinked, figuring out why. He felt warm tears streaming down his face that fell without his knowledge, blurring the edges of some of fresh ink. It was only natural that it escalated into blurring his vision, too. He found his honey eyes were unable to contain those tears that steadily grew in number, rolling down his face in big droplets. He couldn't even if he wanted to. His breaths shuddered, shaking his broken body when doing so. 

Each individual page of the stack of papers held something different. A well documented story of an affair between the German and the Southern Italian. Each title had a new date, meticulously organized by such. So detailed that it would have startled the nation in other circumstances. 

Some were cheesy one line text messages and emails between the two nations, others were so well organized and planned that he could place where he had been when the cheating at occurred, because they planned so well- something that he knew the German must have done, that he wouldn't have interrupted. Those moments of the South denying certain government involved jobs from the boss were simply a part of it. Restaurants, meetups, date suggestions..

They hadn't accounted to the amount of work. If he hadn't gotten done early, he was sure that he wouldn't have walked in on it. 

It made sense to him, if he was able to think so bitterly at the moment, why the German sounded so distant. He was far too preoccupied with his brother to pay him as much attention anymore. Those words they shared, those beautifully detailed words, were nothing more than lies. 

_ 'Don't tell Feliciano. ' _Those words were repeated by both the German and his brother, so much so, that with each moment crossed, it solidified their betrayal that much further. 

He was a foolish person. Not even a foolish nation in particular, as even a civilian would learn rather quickly that he was being played for a fool. 

Yet, he believed them and willingly stayed.

He believed in them. He believed their words that they spoke to his face, because he loved them. He loved them so dearly to his heart that he thought he could trust them regardless, because they were his family. His chosen fiancee, and his own brother. 

It made him begin to doubt everything, and anything. If he had been able to be so bitter, it would call everything a lie, because to him, everything was a lie. He couldn't dispute it, either, if he had the ability to think that at the moment. it was all a lie, cruel ruse that the two played together when they were alone. It didn't matter how long it took the Italian to fall for the German, nor did it matter that Romano had Spain- who he wouldn't leave, either. 

_ 'Don't tell Feliciano.' _

It made so much sense that it hurt him to think about. He noticed that distance, hoped it was in his head at the time, before he made an ass of himself that was. Instead his assessment had been truthful. 

To see the amount of detail, to see how thorough they had been in order to simply lie to his face hurt so much, but it hadn't been the final blow. 

However, the dates drew him the most. They were labeled before that date. Antagonistic relationship transpired between the two until-

_ 'Please don't tell Feliciano. I..can't look at him the same anymore. We lost Luise (...) I can't help but resent him for it. (..)He does not appear affected by the loss..its devastating. ' _

If it hadn't been for that discussion, perhaps Northern Italy would have noticed how much information had been cut out and removed from the conversation, as if whole sentences had been entirely removed to create that dialogue. He would have been able to notice these things if it hadn't been for that discussion and the circumstances surrounding it. 

He didn't notice. Even if he did, it was the very principle of them saying those words at all that mattered most to the Italian. It was those messages that made him weep the most.

Sharp pain radiated from his knees as they met cole linoleum. His eyes were glued to the paper despite the forming bruises that he created. His form shook without restraint as his ears filled with agonizing wails. His thoughts couldn’t get him to stop, and the dying thought that spoke up for him diminished into silence, finally dying altogether. 

He couldn't hear past his own cries anymore. It was as though those agonizing sorrowful wails were only blocked by his horrific thoughts. Each shudder only added to the thoughts. 

'_ (...) I can't imagine what it's like to lose a child. I can understand that you resent him for that. I would, too. (...)' _

Loss, they talked about loss. His beautiful little loss he loved since the moment he felt loss. He couldn’t stop shaking when he read about his beautiful loss. 

_ 'I...yelled at him today. (...) I said things. I know I should regret what I said, but I don't. (...) Gilbert and I fought after that. (..) _

Germany blamed him for losing his beautiful loss. He blamed him for that loss to what he called family. He cursed his name because of that loss, and his own brother didn’t disagree. 

'_ (..) You can't be blamed for feeling that way. It's between you and my brother, no one else right now. (..)' _

His own _ brother _ agreed he was to blame. His beautiful loss was his own fault. His heart screamed out in agony, overwhelmed by the information.

Italy Veneziano finally wore down. He lived for so long, long enough for the nation to understand his limit had been reached. Everything was too much. Far too much for a nation like Italy, far too much for a person like him. 

Kazakhstan was right; he was resilient, but not immune. He was so stubbornly stupid, but even he had a hard limit. 

It was inevitable when he felt something break inside him, crumbling, mere minutes from simply disappearing altogether. So close to visible pieces that anyone, if one were to look, see that were so close to falling down, like he had removed the **wrong** piece in a jenga tower and it swayed so close to collapsing, but didn't fall quite yet. 

Was that what being broken felt like?

“Yonda-“ Italy didn’t hear the Russian. Instead he felt himself gripping the papers in such a way that nearly tore the edges in small, but noticeable increments. It was as if his fear of the punishments that the Russian could inflict meant nothing to the Italian at the moment. Overpowering heartache that radiated to his very being took over him, the kind only a mother could experience over the loss of a child. 

"_ Perché..?!Perché… _?!" 

Perhaps it was because he was the mother of the loss in the first place. He loved so much that loss, everything about the loss he loved. Then, he lost that loss. He took so much verbal abuse for that loss. He didn’t even have the opportunity to mourn that loss, to say he didn’t care about that loss was..disgustingly **wrong**. His thoughts were so disjointed, forced into question with each emotion trickling through to his being. He couldn't concentrate on a single thought for too long before it would be reiterated twice over. 

_ Was that how they- is that what his own family thought?! _

Strong arms lifted him up. Normally he didn’t struggle, his fear of the Russian would explicitly tell him not to, but he squirmed when he was lifted. He let the papers fall before he stopped his squirming. He could just barely feel the Russian, just barely see him speaking through blurred eyes. Although he couldn't hear those words through his own thoughts as they were far too overwhelming in comparison to those words, he could hear how it sounded. A soothing song- Russian most likely, broke through the thoughts. 

It was as though the thoughts themselves were momentarily stunned by the display or too exhausted to fight against the song, as the volume of these thoughts died down. He heard those thoughts replay regardless, but he could finally hear past them. He wanted to continue, and would have done so if they hadn't lowered in volume, forcing his cries to be nothing more than wealth sniffles and his voice to mere hiccups.

His heart wanted to continue regardless of how it would hurt, but he couldn't go on anymore. Instead, it resorted to thoughts, and those were just as potent even when they weren't as loud as before. 

“Are you alright, da?” Italy nodded into the Russian. His thoughts were slow to him, discombobulating even. So much so that repercussions didn’t even cross his mind like they always did. He felt familiar hands rub his back. If Russia cared that he acted in such a way, he didn’t show it.

He never did act as if his outbursts were bothersome. He couldn’t remember if he did. He started to appreciate that from the Russian. 

That was **wrong** , he knew that was **wrong** , but without that voice, it started to be more right then **wrong** . It startled him. He was scared of that **wrongness** slipping away.

He didn’t want that **wrongness** to slip. He did not want to be with the Russian, _ never _ with that man. He had to repeat that, though. 

He never had to before. 

“I became worried for you. I wanted to make sure you were alright.” Russia’s voice was softer than normal. Comforting, soft words that didn’t question the motivation of his outburst. Those words were so soft that it made his overwhelmed heart flutter at it. He couldn’t fight how comforting those words have been. He no longer argued, not from fear, but from the desire to be comforted, to hear those words. 

His body was so tired, he couldn’t muster the energy to fight if he wanted to. The Italian weakly gripped the Russian’s clothes, bringing himself closer to the nation to seek that comfort. His broken form- body and soul, sought that comfort as though it were a landline. 

There was a faint scent of firewood in his clothing, like a permanent winter reminder. He liked the smell of the burning of wood, it reminded him of the holidays spent with Austria as a child; Austria would always have Italy retrieve big pieces of freshly chopped wood for the fire. He would struggle with his tiny arms, but it didn’t matter in the end. He always enjoyed huddling in the blankets near the fire with dessert while hearing the powerful piano keys being played. 

_ “G-Grazie _ .” He whimpered softly, the words ending up muffled by the Russian’s clothing. He felt gentle a gentle hand rub his head. _ “G-Grazie...Mi dispiace se ti ho disturbato _.” 

“You didn’t bother me.” Russia shifted a bit, but he made the Italian let go. Italy shifted himself, looking up briefly. His eyes had been blurred by tears and his cheeks burned from those tears. Russia noticed the confusion, even if Italy tried to hide it. “You don’t bother me, Moya Italiya. You never have. Everything about you, I care for.”

His words were so sickeningly sweet, but he found himself mesmerized by those coated words. 

Russia’s free hand traced his back as he felt those purple eyes examining him. He couldn’t feel the perversion that normally came with his examinations. They weren’t full of disgust or annoyance like the Kazakhstan’s either. He didn’t know the emotion that could be drawn from that examination, even if he made those long words in the first place. 

“Those papers, what were they? What was written in them that you were so upset about?” Russia asked carefully, as though he had been fragile like glass. “What could hurt you so badly, _ Moya Italiya? _”

Italy didn’t want to speak. Something in his soul didn’t want him to know. He didn’t want to make the Russian leave. He didn’t want to be **abandoned**, never again. He didn’t have the nerve to speak. 

That had been a **wrong** thought, but something made him agree that it wasn’t so **wrong** anymore. That **wrongness** was slipping, it scared him so as he could feel it slipping into nothing.

When did he want to stay with the Russian? When did he feel as though he didn’t want to be **abandoned** by him?

**Wrong, wrong, wrong,** but so right it killed him. 

“Was it something from the meeting?” Italy stiffened at that.”It was, wasn’t it?” He could feel the Russian’s gaze softened on him, just like everything else. 

“...you overheard me and Spain?”

The Russian shrugged at the question. “Meetings..are chaotic. I like watching those around me when they occur. It feels as though I am accepted into that chaos. To see you speaking with Spain and Romano in a manner so..uncharacteristic of you, drew my attention.” He answered, tilting his head, eyeing the Italian. “You spoke of a loss, I recall. Was that what hurt you?”

The Italian merely nodded, tears forming again before he felt them removed by the larger nation. He didn’t know how he spoke, his thoughts grew louder briefly once again, but he had, as if instinctual. “I found the manilla envelope on the table. I..didn’t see that there before..” He felt his heart pound so strongly that it nearly hurt. “I opened it..and I found messages, emails..”

_ 'Please don't tell Feliciano. I..can't look at him the same anymore. We lost Luise (...) I can't help but resent him for it. (..)He does not appear affected by the loss..its devastating. ' _

Italy could feel that memory replay, it burning into his very mind when it did. He thought of the German yelling at him in frustration, disappointment and resentment shining through. He thought of his brother that didn’t disagree.

He thought of the nations that would then agree with both of them in return, because he couldn’t even help the one he loved the most. They would agree with everything that’s happened because of that and how **dirty** he had been. 

He blamed himself for being so **weak, dirty, and useless**. 

“M-my lo-lo-My Luise. My beautiful Luise Beilschmidt-Vargas. I loved her so much and then some. She was the most beautiful baby I have ever seen, I loved her the moment I saw her on the ultrasound. She was perfect to me. I was so happy, he was so happy. I was..so excited to see her. Her little face, her tiny feet. She was..perfect. She would have been a year old…” Italy turned away from the Russian to show him the picture that had been in the text messages. His fingers traced it longingly. The Russian looked rather confused, for once, it was Italy to break that confusion. “Everything has been right with her. Every appointment, they spoke of her like she was fine. She wasn’t, though. She wasn’t.” 

Tears dropped on the papers without his knowledge. Russia gently removed them, setting them aside, his eyes still so soft. “She wasn’t fine, she wasn’t. She arrived near perfect, beautiful auburn hair with these bright ruby eyes- she got that from Germany, of course. My Luise, however, had an undiagnosed heart condition. They..didn’t catch it. I didn’t catch it.”He laughed, but there was no joy in his laughter. “She died because that came from me. That..was a problem in my country, and I..didn’t catch that. I thought she didn’t have that congenital malformation trait..because they found nothing. They found nothing, and I accepted that. They couldn’t help her, she died days later.” 

With a glance, he saw those purple eyes widen. He didn’t speak, perhaps allowing him to do so without interruption, but it only made him feel worse. “That was a year ago. I guess I don’t need to tell you what happened after that. Germany..he was angry at me, I understood why, because I blamed..myself too…” He choked out before rubbing away those tears. “He..never told me he hated me..but..I knew he did. I tried to ignore his distance, his verbal attacks, because I tried thinking that it was my fault. Then I..endured his distance from me, because I was at fault for Luise. I couldn’t take his cheating, and I snapped at them both for it, but even then, I..resented them, but I thought it was my fault. I tried hating them, I still resent them, but it was my fault for it in the first place. It was stupid, it still is so _fucking_ stupid to think otherwise, but I..I am mourning too. Why is that so hard to see?“

Italy looked down, he couldn’t see anything, but he didn’t want to face the Russian. “Those messages, they said I wasn’t mourning enough, but I was. I tried my damnedest to move on. I tried and I couldn’t get her little face out of my mind, even when I didn’t say her name, because I couldn’t face what I done.My beautiful little girl isn’t in this world because of me. I know its my fault and _it kills me everyday._ Why isn’t that enough for them?!”

It was as though the overwhelming emotion broke free again in less severity. “_ Mi dispiace che tua madre non sia riuscita a salvarti. Mi dispiace che tu sia nato da qualcuno come me! _” His body shook, by the time the tears turned to quiet sobs, he couldn’t control it. “ I-I was scared to tell you because then you’d blame me like he did, then I’d b-blame me too-“

“That is enough!” Italy’s eyes snapped back to Russia, panic creeping in through the sadness. 

He didn’t want to be alone, he didn’t want to be **abandoned.** He wanted to be **worth** something to someone. 

Instead, he found himself back in the Russian’s arms, embraced by warmth and comfort. The **wrongness** slipped between his fingers.

He found himself unable to process that **wrongness**, so close to diminishing entirely. 

“What do you think you could’ve done?. There was nothing you could have done.” He could feel the hands running down his back, so calming, so soothing. “It’s unfortunate that he thought that of you, when you had no power over those events. I could tell you held onto those feelings for such a long time, that it hurt. You’d rather repress those thoughts then confront them. I cannot say that I am free of that myself. “

The Italian’s sobs started to die down with each word spoken. “I don’t blame you for your loss. No one should have blamed you.”

‘I don’t blame you’ Those four little words made whatever he felt had broken, start to crumble. It was as if the jenga tower that were the pieces started to violently shake. 

So close to collapsing, so close to being entirely gone and broken. 

“Who would place blame on you? Who would be so cruel to harm a person like you in that manner?” It was those very tempting, **wrong** words again. He found those words had constantly made his skin crawl, but he didn’t object. “Who? I wouldn’t do that, never to you. It’s unforgivable, to me at least. You deserve so much more than that. I always think you did.” 

A kiss, he realized. He had been kissed on the forehead by the larger nation. “You deserve far more than that. Don’t you know that? You should, if you don’t. It’s horrible that you think of yourself like you are **worthless** because, quite frankly, I don’t think you are.” 

**Worthless**

“You are valuable, _ Moya Italiya _ , so valuable to me that your **worth** is incomparable. Why would someone make you feel so **worthless** ? So so **worthless** that you blamed it on yourself? _ YA tebya lyublyu, _I love you so much it hurts. It hurts so much to hear you speak ill of yourself.”

“I-I’m sorry…” He found himself apologizing, even though he wasn’t aware of it himself. “I-I’m sorry..”

“They aren’t even close to finding you, they **abandoned** you. It’s..disgusting how they left you to rot, the other nations. I could never **abandon** you like that.” A look on Italy’s face made the nation continue, as if prompted to. “They did, and it’s a shame. They didn’t mention your absence for such a long time, I thought it would be sooner. How can someone with the world around their finger get treated so poorly? Why would anyone want to **abandon** you like that? Why would anyone care so little that your well being meant nothing?”

He didn’t silently argue against them, no. 

“..why?”

“They don’t understand, _ Moya Italiya. _ They don’t care, they don’t love you as much as I do. I will always love you. I will always find **worth** in you.” Hands touched his midsection, affection crawling with each touch. “I could never **abandon** you. You are very special to me, all three of you. The moment I heard you were carrying, you don’t know how happy I was. How can I **abandon** someone that special to me?” Italy put his hands on the Russian’s. 

He didn’t find the words to argue because he couldn’t. The **wrongness** so close to disappearing, but he found himself less scared than before. 

He found himself closer to accepting it, even if that was also incredibly **wrong**. 

“I can tell you want to be with someone. You don’t want to be alone, you don’t want to. You want to be useful, and you want to be **loved**. You want to be useful, don’t you?”

**Useful** . He didn’t want to be **useless** . He wanted to be **useful**, so much so. 

“I-I..want to be with you. I..I want to be **useful** , to be of **worth** ..you make me feel like I-I have **worth** .” He squeaked out, he didn’t hear himself say those words. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t stop himself. Not that he wanted to. “I-I want to be **useful**!” It was as if his voice grew shakier, growing closer to desperate pleas. 

It was inevitable when he felt that something finally crumble, disappearing to nothingness. It was as if the jenga tower that he didn’t know exist inside of him finally swayed too close to the surface and collapsed into tiny pieces. 

Every thought that told him how **wrong** he was disappeared with that broken part, vanishing as though it needed those pieces to exist. 

“I-I want to be **useful** , I-I want to. I don’t want you to leave me..” He felt himself get pinned to the bed, but he didn’t fight it or find himself **dirty** from it anymore. “ _ I..t-ti amo! Ti amo!” _

Italy could make out a familiar sound, the sound of metal and the familiar sensation of raw skin. He didn’t put his entire weight on him, like before. He could feel that on his abdomen, so much he shivered. “You’ll always be useful to me, you don’t have to question that.” Russia kissed him, kissing him almost painfully so- enough to leave marks on his neck while he done so. He didn’t argue against that, he didn’t want to anymore. He started to genuinely reciprocate. “I told you before, you make me..desire you more than anyone else has. Everything about you drives me crazy.”

_ “P-Per favore!” _

“You will always be useful to me.” He braced himself, and this time, he found himself fully aware and reciprocating with each plea and cry. 

He no longer felt **wrong** and it no longer scared him immensely. He wanted it because he wanted to be **useful, worthy** of someone. He wanted to not be **abandoned** again, and he knew the Russian wouldn’t do that to him. 

He wanted to be **loved** the most, and his broken form, body and soul, found that only he could love him. He found that he couldn’t blame himself this time. 

This time, he had been sleeping in the arms of the Russian, not noticing the silver ring that decorated one of his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vy pokorili etu natsiyu? (You conquered this nation?)  
Nevazhno, pokhozhe, ty byl ... zanyat. YA vizhu eto. (Never mind, it looks like you have been..busy. I can see it.)  
On ... pokazyvayet? Eto to, chto vy namekayete?” (He’s... showing? Is that what your implying?)  
Vy ne mozhete skazat'? (Can’t you tell?)  
shlyukha (whore)  
Oh chem ty govorish? (What are you talking about?)  
On neset vash naslednik. (He is carrying your heir)  
Bespoleznaya shlyukha potentsial'no neset v sebe naslednikov bliznetsov Istoriya simptomov i razmerov ukazyvayet na etot ochen' trevozhnyy potentsial (The useless whore is potentially carrying twin heirs at that. History of symptoms and size indicates this very alarming potential.)  
Pomnite nashu diskussiyu? Eto ... neudachnoye obstoyatel'stvo bylo potentsial'nym rezul'tatom."  
(Remember our discussion? This...unfortunate circumstance had been a potential outcome.)  
Nesmotrya na obosnovannoye predpolozheniye, eto boleye chem ne veroyatno. Kazhetsya, yemu uzhe chetyre mesyatsa, dvizheniya net. Sudya po tyazhesti i vremennym ramkam simptomov, on priblizhayetsya k trem mesyatsam. Dal'neysheye rassledovaniye yavlyayetsya obyazatel'nym.(Although an educated guess, it is more than not the most probable. He appears to be four months along, through movement is not present. Judging by the severity and timeframe of symptoms, he is closer to three months along. Further investigation is a must.)  
Ïä (Yes)  
Ïtalïya (Italy)  
Vaffanculo (Fuck off)  
Mi dispiace se ti ho disturbato.(I'm sorry if I bothered you.)  
Mi dispiace che tua madre non sia riuscita a salvarti. mi dispiace che tu sia nato da qualcuno come me.” (I'm sorry that your mother couldn’t save you. i’m so sorry you were born to someone like me.)  
YA lyublyu vas (I love you)  
Oh did (Oh god)
> 
> Many translations are from past chapters, so if something isn’t translated, check there first. 
> 
> *Italy recently made an embassy for him, they trade a bunch of stuff to Kazakhstan irl.  
**Average height in Kazakhstan is 165cm, 3 inches short than Italy’s height.  
*** Russia and Kazakhstan have really close ties, while irl the government is trying to settle things down because of the recent events, they are classified as close for that reason. Turkey was the first to recognize him, if I remember.  
**** Kazakhstan actually has a decent size population of Russian’s because of history between the two- estimates show around 30% of the country is of Russian descent.  
***** It’s also the largest landlocked country in the world!


	4. Dolere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a reference to “hurt people, hurt people.” I’m not condoning what Germany had done, more so, an explanation. Germany is essentially very similar to Italy in terms of coping skills, except much more outwardly destructive. Spain and Italy are parallels. 
> 
> Couples mentioned: [Gerita] [Spamano] [Germano]  
Implied:[AmeMex][Maybe HunMex if you squint]
> 
> Trigger warnings: Cheating, mentions of rape and the similar actions, bodily harm, etc. Same trigger warnings as always, however, not as much as other chapters. 
> 
> Mexico is an OC. More will be explained in 6th chapter with Spain, for now, she is a feisty, foul mouthed nation that considers Spain a big brother. Very protective of said brother. Nothing romantic. She’s also very noisy and loyal. Hates the Italian brothers, less Italy, more Romano because he favored Romano over her.
> 
> If there’s something confusing in this chapter, please tell me!

** _“M-my lo-lo-My Luise. My beautiful Luise Beilschmidt-Vargas. I loved her so much and then some. She was the most beautiful baby I have ever seen, I loved her the moment I saw her on the ultrasound. She was perfect to me. I was so happy, he was so happy. I was..so excited to see her. Her little face, her tiny feet. She was..perfect. She would have been a year old…”_ **

Germany awoke that day to messages in the form of a recording, sitting on his study, simply waiting for him. It was a rather old form of receiving a recording at that, in the form of a strange, near dilapidated tape recorder. It looked ridiculously old, as it most likely was, and it clearly had seen better days. Within the tape recorder had been a makeshift tape, both sides clearly labeled as though, whoever sent it, had meant for it to be heard in a certain order. Next to the tape recorder were similar looking tapes, lined in an organized fashion. 

It fascinated and unnerved the Germanic nation to no end. It was a form of machinery, something he had been yearning to get back into tinkering with. Machinery had specific parts and functions, each he enjoyed reading quite thoroughly. It had been a hobby at some point, but he found himself unable to tinker lately. It was an older machine, one that hadn’t most likely been in use for years- if he fixed it, polished it, perhaps he could salvage it. If not, he could salvage the parts that made the machine work and put them to use in other machines later.

Something made his desire to tamper with the machine die down. A permeating sense of something ungodly wrong that he couldn’t process. It had been there today, but not there last night, nor had he heard someone break into his residence. To give him this tape recorder, it meant someone was clearly waiting for him to elicit a particular response. Whatever had been on the tapes, he was sure would make his skin crawl. 

For a few moments after he sat and discovered the tapes and the recorder, he waited, examining the device. The German grunted in annoyance, pinching the bridge of his nose as he had done so, before rubbing his eyes. 

He was overthinking the tapes. He had been stressed, much more lately, and it wouldn’t shock the German if it had been given to him by the Prussian. The thought of it being a prank or s simple disposal of something that belonged in the garbage annoyed him. As much as he cared for him, it made logical sense that he happened to fall for one of Prussia’s tricks. Again. It was a logical conclusion, as he had done so far too many times in the past, some of which he couldn’t help but get annoyed by still. 

_ "Dude, I think you went way too far, don't you think you should ease up a little?" _

_ "Nein, he has to learn eventually." _

_ "..Whatever you say, West. Just letting you know, you're starting to be mean. That was just mean, and you know it. " _

Something, nudging at the back of his head, vehemently denied that it had been the Prussian. He disliked that voice; it disagreed far too common on many occasions that made him wish he could simply shut it up as it created guilt, but he couldn’t help but agree with it. He hadn’t seen the Prussian. That was an undeniable fact. He had disappeared to god knows where after the first meeting 5 months ago. He hadn’t moved, much to his knowledge, but there had been obvious attempts at avoidance. If the Prussian had been there, he hadn’t caught him yet. While it made his theory a bit more solid, it was undeniable that the Prussian would rather avoid the German instead of tricking him. 

_ "Until you've gotten rid of whatever you've got up your ass, I'm leaving. You're starting to be an ass. It was one thing before, now you're being unreasonably dickish. " _

He listened to that voice, which he unfortunately had to chide him like a child. He wasn’t in denial, no matter what the Prussian insisted, he understood the reasoning behind his abandonment. No matter what the Prussian argued against him, he knew that he hadn’t been in denial. That was one, undeniable fact.

_ “Do you hear what you say to Italy? You treat him like shit, West!”  _

_ "Was? Nein-" _

_ “What you say to him is  _ ** _jenseits der scheiße_ ** _ ! He knows you are angry, he lets you because..because he’s..Italy, but your fucking killing him, West! Ever since last year, you’ve done nothing but abuse him! No wonder he's fucking never happy anymore, how can he be when he's with you?” _

It was clear as day why he left, he explained that in painful detail. Germany supposed that the Prussian chose what he believed in, chose to lie with that belief. His brother was a stubborn man, he expected as much. It was logical to, but it didn’t make his heart stop aching when he thought more of it. 

He shook his head, he was being ridiculous. All it took was a click, one small click of the play button, and he heard his voice once more. That hauntingly, broken voice that belonged to someone that he was once going to call ‘husband’. It made his heart beat in rapid succession; he yearned to hear that voice again. Craved it, even. 

Contrary to popular belief, he did love Northern Italy. Every bit of him, in fact, even if he had annoying tendencies. He couldn't fall out of love with the man. He was a fire that refused to be snuffed. 

If Germany was as observant as he possibly acted, perhaps he would notice how snuffed that flame as been as of late. He didn't notice, because he wasn't there anymore. A fire snuffed out by a single man that not a century could cause. 

He didn’t notice, however. 

** _“Everything has been right with her. Every appointment, they spoke of her like she was fine. She wasn’t, though. She wasn’t.”_ **

That voice he used to return home to was broken, battered beyond belief, as though cracking with each word. It’s words laced with self-directed malice and sorrow, forming to create an almost unrecognizable composition belonging to the Northern Italian. 

He couldn't help but recoil as France's words echoed in his thoughts. 

_ “I hope he isn’t hurting. Whatever happens, it’s on your hands, Allemagne” _

No, they weren't right. France was the nation of love, shouldn't he understand better than he did? He had been blinded, of course. So far blinded that he couldn't possibly understand what he went through anymore. Didn't even try.

Contrary to what the Frenchman claims, he wasn't an abusive, selfish, denialist. He followed protocol to the T. It didn’t matter what he argued, because the Frenchman was logically wrong. 

He didn't act the way France portrayed him as. He knew the truth, and it didn't matter what the Frenchman alleged when he recalled that. He didn't think that way, either. It was a ridiculous allegation. 

_ "As the country of love, I can tell you're not being truthful." France edged closer to the German nation. "You must be incredibly concerned. Who was he-ah yes, Italy. He's been gone for quite a long time. It's..unsettling, I don't doubt it. You must be completely wrecked. It's okay to weep." _

_ The German didn’t believe a word the Frenchman said, none of it had been through the lens of concern. He cocked a brow, annoyance starting to grow as he stood at the door.  _

_ He regretted a lot of things; he regretted opening the door for him. He wanted to return to his lover’s arms; he wanted to go back and touch every inch of his body as he had been prior to the interruption. He wanted to finish what he started.  _

_ He interrupted, and it annoyed him to no end. He glanced, and out of the corner of his eye had been the Spaniard. He didn’t outwardly show his aggravation towards the Spaniard in question- he had expressed to him, in no great detail, to not tell. He was sure he had been blunt enough.  _

_ He didn't want to start a useless investigation. Italy was a weak country after all, getting into trouble with other countries so easily that it resurfaced a collaboration that had been stalled. He was well known for being kidnapped, it made everything seem pointless.  _

_ There was an inherent wrongness in that assessment. How long was too long? He didn't dwell on that. He didn't try to.  _

_ If it hadn’t been the increasing guilt, he would’ve been far more than just aggravated. There were formalities and assessments given that were compromised by the Spaniard, after all. Yet, guilt trumped that. It was an undeniable fact that the Spaniard was married to the Southern Italian; he had married him as soon as he had the ability to, that hadn’t been a secret to the German. As confusing as it was for the Spaniard to refer to the Southern Italian as his ‘boyfriend’, it was an undeniable fact that he was married.  _ _ _

_ It was also an undeniable fact the Southern Italian absolutely adored him. There were words, he quickly discovered that the typically ornery Italian would use strictly for the Spaniard. The way he presents himself, the way he walks around Spain- it was all only directed for Spain. No matter the actions the German had with the Southern Italian- the 'dates' (which, he would disagree upon), the flirting tendencies, and the likes, they weren't genuine to either of them, especially the Gernan hating Southern Italian. Spain was the one that captured his very soul. Spain, in turn, knew so much about Romano that he understood his wants and desires nearly to a T. _

_ So much so that Romano would do everything and anything he could to preserve that. It was a strange relationship that he couldn't understand, but he didn't question that, either. It was bluntly obvious how much he loved that Spaniard just by the light in his eyes.  _

_ It was wrong to disrupt such a healthy relationship, he knew it. He knew it was wrong to ask Romano for more and more, because he knew where his heart truly lies. It wasn’t as though he went out of his way to, not purposely. _

_ It was as though he had been with Italy, so much stronger than Italy though. It wasn’t cheating if he thought of his partner when he done such actions, surely it wasn’t. Romano had been everything that Italy had been, but there were things he couldn’t do with the Northern Italian that the Southern would happily fill. Some rather dark things that he ultimately found better to act on sexually than not. He didn’t want to hurt Italy, even though, something always told him in the back of his mind, that he had wanted to and continued to do so.  _

_ He ignored those types of thoughts. He wasn't a violent man, after all.  _

_ It was really a mutual feeling; he didn’t know what made Romano do what he did, but he didn’t ask. Neither did. Still, why did he feel so guilty as though he purposely wanted to hurt Spain and Italy?  _

_ He chose to deny those thoughts the right to a voice once more. _

_ Germany wouldn't allow the Frenchman to bait him into saying something incriminating. No, he was a proud nation, he wouldn’t fall for it, even if what he said made him feel like a liar. "I've been going over review. I can't drop everything for one nation. There are formalities that must be met first before a formal meeting can take place for missing nations." _

_ " _ ** _Qu'est ce que ça veut dire?!" _ ** _ France shot back. "What does that  _ ** _even mean?!_ ** _ " _

_ Did he have to explain everything? It was a simple concept, really. There were other problems that he had to deal with; dropping everything for one could cost him dearly, even if it meant that he had to stall to complete those tasks. It meant for better work, rushing headfirst into a situation would then, later, prove fatal. _

_ At least, that had been partially true.  _

_ It was a purposeful action, of course. Regardless of the rumors that surrounded the actions, it wasn't as cruel as they made it seem. They didn't abandon the country to whatever he was facing, they didn't leave him to rot. That would be...disgusting. The fact that the idea, that very concept, had been introduced had repulsed the German to no end. _

_ No, it wasn't as simple as that. _

_ He and South Italy had ultimately found it necessary to stall, it was an important action on their part. It was Romano in particular that had come to him discussing that he and his boss had been in collaboration. He understood that much; he had been in talks with other countries himself, even during World War 2 that he, ultimately, had to not tell his allies about until he had absolutely needed to. He also understood the conditions of the collaboration that he knew from the Southern Italian. From what the South had explicitly said, it wasn't something that was negotiable; it was a very concerning collaboration, one that needed to be absolutely guarded at that.  _

_ That included the investigation by default, as the collaboration in question had involved the North Italian, even if the Northern half hadn't been made aware of the collaboration in the first place.  _

_ As suspicious as it was for the North to be left out of the negotiations and collaborations, as he was primarily the one that focused on politics, it wasn't his place to argue. It was a discussion that belonged in Italy alone.  _

_ It was a very lengthy collaboration if what the Southern Italian spoke of was true; a little over a two year long process that was spurred back into relevance after the events that occurred months ago. While Germany had some vague knowledge on the information presented in the collaboration, as much to know that it had been with the winter nation, the extent of it had been made unclear. _

_ He did know for certain, however, was the effect it had on the Southern Italian. More and more, the Southern Italian came to him for relief, to remove thoughts of actions that the Italian classified as "unconscionable", but he never expressed what made them so. Once he had been awake to catch the South praying to God, begging for a type of forgiveness that he had similarly done in the past. _

_ Except, he swore he heard the name Veneziano when he prayed. It wasn't his place, another lack of a question to a lack of an answer. _

_ With brief glimpses, there was of note regret, disappointment, and sorrow etching each feature.  _

_ He didn't ask again, it wasn't his place to, even if something told him it was a necessary course of action to. _

_ He denied that part from the others for the South Italian. If it wasn't his place to ask, it wasn't there's to know, either. He listened to formalities- that being one of them. Still, something in his being told him that it was a formality that he shouldn't have listened to, a lie that he made that not even he could dispel without difficulty. It was a blunt lie that wasn't justifiable, not even to the German. For certain, it wasn't for the others, either.  _

_ Perhaps if he understood more, the rumors would be easily removed, but he didn't. As a result, he tried to stall for the Southern Italian, even if he couldn't justify that wait either. _

_ "Formalities dictate-" _

_ "Four months, Allemagne! Four months!" Germany recoiled, but that didn’t deter the Frenchman. He was expecting a reaction of sorts; Italy always did refer to the Frenchman as a "big brother" regardless of his blatant tendencies to flirt with him. As obvious as it was that France would be inclined to yell at him for both treatments, it still hurt to be reminded. He didn’t seem to stop, he didn’t look like he wanted to stop.Not in the slightest. “Four months- potentiality five depending on how long it’s been between visits. That’s incredibly long. If he had been a civilian, that would be a death sentence!” _

_ He didn’t want to deny that, either. It was another fact the German couldn’t dispel. It was logical; the longer a person is gone for, the higher the odds of them dying or potentially worse.  _

_ He still would try to even if he would be in the wrong.  _

_ “Italy is a country, he can’t die. There isn’t anything that would ultimately harm him long term.” He didn’t believe himself. Not his own words. He knew the Frenchman didn’t, either. He doubted that the Frenchman would believe that he was concerned himself. _

_ Contrary to popular belief, he was worried. So incredibly worried. He never showed his worry, because it wasn’t practical to. He loved Northern Italy. He loved every bit of the country, even the annoying habits he did.  _

_ He wanted him back, too. He wanted him by his side, smiling that goofy smile, the ring he gave him proudly flaunted back on his finger. He remembered just how happy he was when he proposed, he was bouncing off the walls practically.  _

_ The happy nation was gone, his silence concerning.  _

_ Why did that not cross the other nations' minds, even once, that he was concerned just as much as they were? He couldn’t quell his discomforting thoughts, those uncomfortable, panicking thoughts.  _

_ He hoped that South Italy would hurry with whatever he had been doing, if it had such an impact on the investigation.  _

_ “Do you really believe that?” France’s voice simmered. It was soft, but boiling under the surface. “Do you believe those lies you tell yourself? Is that how you sleep at night? Nations don’t need to be physically hurt to be hurt long term.” _

_ “You’re wrong, and you know it, France.” There was panic hidden, catchable, it barely. “You’re wrong, verdammt!” He didn’t need the Frenchman to remind him. He absolutely didn’t need those words.  _

_ France softened at that but didn’t stop. _

_ "I was worried about you. I was, considering your relationship with the nation. I don't know the specifics of your relationship to the nation, so I could be wrong either way. Italy was your fiancé? Husband?" France shrugged. "Ah, none of the above, right Allemagne? You don’t care if he was all the above or none of the options. Even if you cared, you made sure he was none of the above.” _

_ Germany flinched at the words. Those painfully true words; he could argue against them, of course. He wasn’t in denial nor was he a selfish nation, he really wasn’t.  _

_ “So, the rumors were true after all?" _

_ Germany didn’t answer. The Frenchman took it as an answer, like a shark in bloody waters.  _

_ “..Is it true what Prussia told me, too?” Germany’s face twisted in confusion. He hadn’t known what the Prussian told him, but it couldn’t be a good thing.  _

_ Not after their argument. He expected the Prussian to turn to France, even though it had been between him and Germany alone. He always did speak loud and boldly, regardless of the appropriateness of it.  _

_ “Don’t act coy, you know what I’m talking about, don’t you? Is it true what Prussia told me?” France repeated, glaring as he done so. “I have a feeling you know exactly what I’m referring to, because I..dismissed what Italy told me about you.” _

_ That was a surprising thought. “Was?” _

_ “Prussia..came to me drunk off his ass after an argument you two had. I thought it off as Prussia had been..Prussia.” France cringed at his wording. “..he told me that you used to yell at him, you would have a short fuse with him..I ignored Italy..because..he’s..scared of everything. I ignored him because I trusted that you weren’t saying anything disgustingly cruel. Prussia..he told me what you would tell him. Prussia, I can only assume, had been tired of your anger towards him. I was surprised to see that he couldn't defend you, either. You were always special to him, after all.” _

_ France eyed the Spaniard briefly. “I don’t care for reasoning, Allemagne. Your reasoning is worthless, oui. Reasoning doesn’t change what was done, it simply makes you feel better. It removes guilt from your conscious..but I don’t care about that. You’ve hurt someone close to me. I have to turn to you, because I must, but if it wasn’t so, I would never see your face again, not if I had the ability to. You break nations with words. You destroy people with words. That’s what you’ve done. Before, that’s what you’ve done with him. It’s..beyond disgusting.” _

_ There was a pause from the Frenchman. “He’s..emotionally stronger than he looks. Italy..he’s been in many wars. He always bounces back. I have never seen him so miserable than when he’s with you after your anger. I didn’t want to believe that you had caused that. You proved me wrong.” He stopped, looking at the German. “You’ve done so much to harm him. I don’t know why. I don’t care to. All I want to know is if you are doing so out of malice. That's all I wish to hear.” _

_ ‘Was?! Nein!” _

_ He gave a dry chuckle. “That is why you cheated on him, oui? If it's not malice, what is it? Why would you go through so much effort just to harm him? If you didn't show so much contempt for him as much as your words suggested, why did you speak them?” France mulled, his face hardening with each word. "You couldn't have simply dropped the relationship, oui? It would have hurt him briefly, but it surely would've been a healthier route than to simply attack him at any given turn, I presume." _

_ “Formalities-“ _

_ “Allemagne, we both know it has nothing to do with formalities anymore! You did it. I..don’t like the American’s tendencies for conspiracy theories. I normally dismiss them, but..even though I can't deny the truth behind that theory. No one holds off an investigation this long, not unless you genuinely hated the man. We can all see it, just not you.” France looked away, glaring at the wall behind the German as if he wanted to do more than just glare. “I don’t know why you changed, why you like to hurt him. At the moment, it doesn’t matter. You hurt people, many people.” _

_ "Spain is blind, Allemagne, but he won't be forever. Sooner or later, they'll start a family of their own, and the consequences will follow. Spain adores Romano, but it's eating him, too. He's in a state that..I haven't seen him in a while. Prussia is overworking himself for Italie, for negligence you caused. He's disappointed in you, and fixing that disappointment for you is maddening to watch, nonetheless do. You're hurting people, not yourself anymore. What should I know, though, right Allemagne? That is what you were going to say, isn't it? You've been saying that to everyone. It's getting tiring. Selfish, its selfish. You're not the only one hurting.." _

_ A heavy silence pulsed through the air. It was an increasingly thick silence that he found himself unable to break.  _

_ France's face grew unreadable, distant.  _

_ "What was mon petit frère to you?" Germany did a double take at the sudden shift. "Allemagne, it's a simple question. You should be able to answer it. What was he to you?" _

_ A brief silence before the Frenchman continued. "Italie is mon petit frère. He..is a lot of things, but he is a good man. He and I, we go far back. I..admit my treatment of him..is questionable at times, but do not get me wrong, I care deeply about him. That is why I am asking you this again: what was Italy to you?" _

_ "I..liebte ihn." Simple, articulated. More articulated than normal for the German when it came to emotions. A small blush, a twinge of a smile, both with an attempt to be hidden by the larger man. "Fiance. Mut-" Germany paused, biting back words. He didn’t want to remember that. Not when he could remember the pure joy the Northern Italian had when he learned. Not when he remembered that panic, that sorrow when he started to lose her. He didn’t want to see those images in his thoughts anymore, because it made him feel all the more guilty, and he didn’t want to feel guilty. He wasn’t in denial, but it was hard to deny that when he felt that guilt with every memory. "He was everything. He is everything."  _

_ “I absolutely loved him. I still do absolutely love him.” Germany stopped once more, glaring at nothing in particular as he gripped the door frame. Italy had warned him of something not being right, but he dismissed it. He always had, because he was a scared nation. It wasn't a stretch to believe that the nation would be scared of nothing. It was an assumption that proved fatal. “...I was töricht, I should’ve listened to him. “ _

_ He didn’t know what he referred to anymore. France caught that almost instantaneously. _

_ “...I hope that he..mon petit frère..isn’t hurting.” France frowned. “He told me you thought he was crazy. That was one of my last conversations with him before he..was taken. I have never seen that man so..angry in my life. So conflicted before. You did the impossible.” _

_ “I hope he isn’t hurting. Whatever happens, it’s on your hands, Allemagne” _

No, he didn’t believe what the Frenchman said. Italy was a nation. While he had been afraid for him, he is still a nation first and foremost. He couldn’t be harmed in a way that would be permanent. 

He didn’t want to break the nation. He didn’t want to hurt him. He didn’t mean- no, he didn’t hurt him. He wasn’t in denial, it simply wasn’t the case. He never hit Italy, he never yelled at him for things that he didn’t deserve to be yelled at for. He wasn’t in denial, he didn’t pause the investigation on purpose like France suggested, he wasn’t selfish like Prussia thought.m

They would never understand. 

** _“She wasn’t fine, she wasn’t. She arrived near perfect, beautiful auburn hair with these bright ruby eyes- she got that from Germany, of course. My Luise, however, had an undiagnosed heart condition. They..didn’t catch it. I didn’t catch it.”He laughed, but there was no joy in his laughter. “She died because that came from me. That..was a problem in my country, and I..didn’t catch that. I thought she didn’t have that congenital malformation trait..because they found nothing. They found nothing, and I accepted that. They couldn’t help her, she died days later.”_ **

The German shook his head, eyeing the tape recorder. Had he dozed off? He turned on his laptop, the time quickly popping on the screen when he has done so. It was early still, but it wasn’t abnormal for the German to wake so early for work. Without a moment's notice, the recorded message committed itself to looping. 

He was morbidly curious what the Northern Italian had been saying, but he decidedly did not want it to replay. Yet, he didn’t stop the machine from replaying, making him listen to the next few lines that the Italian had spoken of. 

Who was he talking to there?

** _“That was a year ago. I guess I don’t need to tell you what happened after that. Germany..he was angry at me, I understood why, because I blamed..myself too…”_ **

He didn’t question what he meant, he deserved to feel that blame, but it was the tone that he used. As if he was on the verge of breaking down, fading to create sobs that he tried to ignore.

He didn’t want to give sympathy. Not for that. Never for that, even if he wanted him to be here once more, he found himself getting heated from the very thought of the Italian shifting blame.

He denied the voice that argued against that very notion. It would try to point out that he couldn’t have possibly known, couldn’t possibly have done something, anything. 

It would speak of Italy mourning, too, and if he listened, he would feel guilt that he didn’t notice how much that he had been or that he was at all. It would make him picture him in that hospital room again, such an argument brewed between the two that led to the Northern half banning him from the room entirely, something that would’ve shocked the German if it hadn’t been so destructively hurt.

He never did see the Italian smile that much around him anymore. Nothing genuine, as though he had to force it near him. A smile, a kiss, never truly reaching the places it was supposed to, as though he withheld it. There were genuine moments scattered, but they never stayed. 

As though he was scared to. He denied that, though. 

** _“He..never told me he hated me..but..I knew he did. I tried to ignore his distance, his verbal attacks, because I tried thinking that it was my fault. Then I..endured his distance from me, because I was at fault for Luise. I couldn’t take his cheating, and I snapped at them both for it, but even then, I..resented them, but I thought it was my fault. I tried hating them, I still resent them, but it was my fault for it in the first place. It was stupid, it still is so fucking stupid to think otherwise, but I..I am mourning too. Why is that so hard to see?“_ **

** _“Those messages, they said I wasn’t mourning enough, but I was. I tried my damnedest to move on. I tried and I couldn’t get her little face out of my mind, even when I didn’t say her name, because I couldn’t face what I done.My beautiful little girl isn’t in this world because of me. I know its my fault and it kills me everyday. _ ** ** _Why isn’t that enough for them?!”_ **

There was a noticeable change of that voice he used to hear, used to love, that made it sound so frantic. As if two melodies clashed and created a distorted, disjointed song that was on the verge of tearing into two. 

He took note, writing down on paper that. He didn’t want to think of the possibility, a very logical, very real, potential possibility that the perpetrator had sent him a final hurrah of the Northern Italian’s sanity. 

He couldn’t deny that there was evidence pointing out how close Italy had been on the verge of breaking down in such an environment. Yes, the evidence that, even through multiple tries, he couldn’t shake from memory. The best word to describe any of it had been ‘romantic’, the next, ‘recognition’. He didn’t need to be skilled in romance to know that some gestures had been awfully romantic in nature. 

Germany had to box away the “gifts” from the sight of anyone. He had to continuously view them, no matter how often it made him feel sick when he did. He didn’t want the others to, as well. They didn’t need to know the details in such a way, didn’t need to see that. It was more respectful that way. 

Aside from the tampering the evidence through cleaning of the crime scene, whoever harmed and continues to harm the Northern Italian had sent him ‘presents’ that were on the verge of being called ‘romantically grotesque’, so much so he had to stop himself from tearing the pictures piece by piece into crumbles of nothingness. Each picture had been an updated point of view, each time he had to see a punishment that the Italian hadn’t earned, the light in his eyes starting to deplete with each picture. 

Each photo was choreographed, posed to be as though he had been a porcelain doll, a precious gift that was to be used and abused. Each time, he could see the cloudiness in his eyes, the bruises that decorated each time he had to do something. 

The beginning sense of acceptance. Every update, every little piece of information, tossed at him as though to rub salt in his wounds. As if implying that he caused it to happen. 

Then he saw the last couple of pictures. The forming bump- he knew he was pregnant the moment he saw one of the pictures. He saw them easily because he saw that before. He was pregnant, he would bring children into the world by the hands of a man the German could see that he was scared of. The dead gazes in those pictures from the Northern Italian proved that, as though he had fought and started to accept his fate, but he couldn’t hide unconscious distaste. Each of the pictures had written text at the bottom in such neat font. 

He hadn’t, yet, not if he noticed it right. There was optimism still clinging to something that resembled hope, but acceptance had already begun, leaving him near drained of his perkiness and nothing has been done to replace it.

Whoever had sent him this wanted to show him the breakdown, slow, steady. The hope that he would have been demolished almost in a split second in some pictures. The perpetrator wanted to, if the German had been so bold, show them exactly what was done, almost in a claiming manner. He seen criminals do something similar for a love interest, going as far as to kill in the name of love. He hasn’t seen, however, a person forcibly making another love them. 

He never seen it work, either.

It was wrong to hope otherwise, it wouldn’t make sense logically, but he hoped his assumptions had been off base. That had been nothing short of disturbing with the amount of details, however. He knew they were accurate assumptions based off that alone.

He shook his head, the thoughts piling up as he done so. Thinking about them won’t help anyone. There wasn’t anything that the German could do to ignore those images, though, and the growing jealousy that he got when he looked the newer photos. 

_ “Doitsu, Doitsu!”  _

_ “Was is it now, Italien?” _

_ “She’s starting to kick-I’ve been playing the songs you sing for her, and she recognizes it! Here, feel!” _

_ “..She is, isn’t she?” _

_ “Ve~I think she loves your voice!” _

Why wouldn’t he be jealous when all he ever saw was the excitement that he shared with the Italian when he did? Why wouldn’t he when he was forced to endure memories of a better time, when he still had both of them?

He hated the implications and hated the fact that he couldn’t adequately deny them. 

He still tried to deny them.

** _“Mi dispiace che tua madre non sia riuscita a salvarti. Mi dispiace che tu sia nato da qualcuno come me!”_ **

The German’s eyes widened, his pen nearly dropped as he stared at the tape recorder. He had heard many things in his life, seen many people go through a mental shift, but to hear it directly from someone he loved. 

So intense were those unknown words that it broke him out of his thoughts so easily. He didn’t know what they spoke of, he had no knowledge of Italian, but the sheer intensity told him that he didn’t need to know exactly what they meant to know they were meaningful and dragged out of him. 

No, no. Logically, it made more sense to believe he was blabbing when he was scared. North Italy was an Italy, a coward through and through with the tendency to run and to blabber in order to save his own hide. It took only a few steps to assume that he would use anything to gain sympathy (that Germany himself refused to grant him) to size his hide. 

As angry as it made him feel that the Italian would bring this up in an act of sympathy, something made these denials fall short: the messages. For a moment, he wondered what he meant by that. What he sent had been private, to the Southern Italian alone. 

Hacking. Someone hacked, the tweaking of technology. Only his words proved to be evidence of the action. He needed more proof than that. Many countries hack, or tweak technologies for a hobby. 

However, the idea that they were hacked only had merit if he trusted the North Italian’s words. He hadn’t, and his actions were easier to make when he denied those claims.

It assuaged the guilt. 

He wasn’t in denial, selfish, or hold any resentment towards the Italian. It was ridiculous. He simply refused to give him sympathy. He won’t forgive him, and he won’t forget what he had done.

He fucked up on the one thing he shouldn’t have, and he refuses to acknowledge otherwise, regardless of how that nudging voice spoke against that logic. That wasn’t anything, that was realistic. 

He straightened himself out, turning off the recorder as he has done so. With a glance, he eyed what he had on the desk once more. He was organized normally. The moment he saw that he had another gift, he chose to examine it rather than organize the desk. It threw him off. 

“I must be tired. I can’t believe I fell for that.” He was disappointed in himself. The logic he used to think when it came to that 'gift' was ridiculously low. Tiredness, perhaps, a factor in his thoughts on the matter. He had no idea why he even thought it was a gift from anyone he remotely liked." Ja..fatigue.”

Yes, fatigue was to blame. He truly needed to sleep better. He briefly debated on asking Romano for relief. He knew better than to ask him of that, not now. It would be redundant if he asked him anyway. The Southern Italian had emphasized he would be over in the night, after all- the Spaniard had an appointment and the Southern Italian didn't want to miss it. Although he spoke in his normally foul way, there was an air of excitement to those words. He didn’t want to impede on that joy. 

Another ultrasound, twin boys. Spain being pregnant still had been shocking, twins were shocking. It shouldn’t have been surprising, but it had been the moment he learned. Rome was a twin at some point, if the fable had been accurate.* Twins were a possibility if that had been the case. Still, it was surprising hadn't it hadn't been Romano. If they were to have a family, everyone expected it to be Romano carrying. To learn it hadn’t been spoke volumes of their relationship. 

He didn’t ask for details, it was rude and invasive if he had. He denied that it was from guilt. It made him feel better when he denied it. 

Still, even he couldn’t deny that he wanted it to be something other than another ‘gift’. With a turn, he returned back to his work. He might’ve stalled the investigation, but he still needed to get some things done for it. Evidence needing to be organized and thoroughly assessed was a must when it was time for the investigation to continue. 

With a scan, Germany made note of the amount of words. Nothing. So many words for absolutely nothing. How could there be so many words when all it meant was nothing? It was a waste of paper, a waste of time. He wrote the summary with added notes from the tape recorder findings, another formality, before he looked towards the calendar. When he did, he punched between his eyes in annoyance.

He grunted at that, filing reports away for the moment before turning to the rest of his work. He was fully aware of how long it’s been. How many hours in between and all, Spain made that perfectly clear. To know, after so long, there was still nothing, was beyond aggravating.

He knew it had been 10 months. 10 months of a nation- person disappearing and still nothing of substance had been found. Italy had been gone from the world for 10, long, months and no one could pinpoint where he had been despite the ‘gifts’.

To make matters worse, what physical evidence they had, was meaningless. He didn’t admit (or care to admit) that it was through his negligence, his avoidance of the matter, that caused the lack of physical evidence that worsened the situation exponentially. South Italy never did suggest that he shouldn’t gather physical evidence from the home. Now, it had been impossible to.

He would go as far as to say even South Italy couldn't defend that, not that he could say so. He never told him that in words, he didn't need to. He still denied the lack of physical evidence being his fault, even though it was increasingly difficult to. 

Perhaps it had been a severe breach of conduct, but the lack of physical evidence had been made known to the nations. 

It only gave them more ammunition against the already shot German. He knew that, regardless of how he felt, the others felt otherwise. They didn’t understand his lack of sympathy, as though he had been the cruel one. It was unfortunate that no one understood it, more so that not even his brother could stand by his side. He didn’t get his logic, either. 

_ “…if you’re going to treat him like he’s nothing, then leave him. He’s not your verbal punching bag, he can only take so much!” _

Prussia was many things: protective, annoying, loving, and very loyal to a fault. As a child, from what he did remember, he would always stand by him. He would run and protect him regardless of if it hurt him or not. 

Yet even he turned his back on him. 

_ “You’re such a  _ ** _egoistischer Dummkopf! _ ** _ You're not the only one grieving, West! You aren’t! I heard Italy..I think you have, too.” He recognized that emotion so clearly crossing his features: disappointment.”You blame him..you don’t see how you treat him. If you continue, you’re going to lose people, bruder, with your anger. You won’t lose only Luise.” _

He was the only one that truly understood what he had felt, and he still left him alone.

Prussia hadn’t been the only nation, of course, to tell him those words. Not even the last of them to. Everyday, he could feel the accusations crawling down his back, read it off them, though that hadn’t been necessary as it had been given to him quite vocally. Nations had been weary of the Germanic nation, scrutinizing everything he had done so far, slowly but surely. 

No matter the subject matter, it was as though he had been judged. It was an unfair judgment, but it was a judgment that was placed on him. 

He didn’t need nations turning to him in anger, judging him. He knew the truth, it was simple as that to him. They didn’t know the collaborations or the talks that went behind the scenes. They couldn’t understand why he made his judgment, how hard it had been to make that judgment. He needed time, and if that time and he bought that time easily. Running the risk was better than running headfirst into a situation. He didn’t deny that it was difficult, but he denied the guilt that came with it.

It made his inaction easier. He wasn’t selfish or a denialist. He simply wasn’t. He had his reasons and they were logical. 

It was as if the Northern Italian had disappeared from the face of the earth. Germany had been the one to blame for that. Everyone had placed the blame on him and the Southern Italian for their inaction and the actions that they did do.

They didn’t see that it made his stomach twist when he looked through each page- he knew what Italy was going through. He’s seen images of it plenty. He did try, regardless of how many countries suggested otherwise.

He shouldn’t feel guilty. In fact, he’d go as far as to say he wasn’t guilty, not much. He wasn’t in denial. He didn’t want to risk anything, not with the looks that the South Italian gave him. He read those looks, knowing them full well. 

It wasn’t his place to ask, he knew better then to. 

_ "...Hey, Iggy, my theories aren't conspiracies! I’m right and you know it!” _

_ "..the only theory that you gave that wasn't a conspiracy theory, but you still commit to conspiracy theories, you git!" _

_ "For once I must agree with Angleterre, oui~ It sounds absolutely the case of resentment..just not the rest of the nonsense. Really, Russia couldn't be bothered with Italy like that-" _

_ "Hey, that's not true, I've seen it! Me and Prussia saw him doing weird shit in his house-" _

_ "You've been stalking him?! That's the stupidest stunt you pulled, you-" _

_ "-and I swear, I've heard Italy yelling. I dunno. Its shady, Iggy, with a capital S!"  _

_ "And, do pray tell, what was he yelling about?" _

_ "I dunno, I couldn't get that close! The only things I could hear clearly were in Italian. It sounded..bad." _

_ "Why am I even entertaining this stupidity?" _

He didn't understand half of what the American spouted, none sounded valid with exception to his antics with his brother, but he knew that he was simply one of the voices that spoke like that. It proved one thing, though: there had been a theory that spread over time slowly, but surely that resentment had made information scarce. Some, like China and France, even suggested that he was disgustingly abusive and that it was through his resentment for the North Italian that caused such in inaction in the first place, even if the former could care less about his relationship life. China speculated, through his own experiences, that it could cause severe impact, that inaction. 

And it unfortunately had like predicted.

His disappearance was a mystery, but that mystery didn’t matter to the country itself. The state of the Northern half of Italy had proven that it missed its country representative, as if it begged for him back, slowly starved without him. A country without its representative decays, its heart slowing down until there isn’t a country anymore. As hard as the Southern Italian tried to maintain that balance, being another Italy, he simply couldn’t. 

Southern Italy hadn’t been run by the government, not as much as the Northern half, as the aforementioned mafia had slowly but surely became their own power on their own. He couldn’t handle the political angles that the Northern had a strange affinity for.

That ignored the political ties that had started to decay and weaken as a result. As much as he tried rationalizing, the country was to be run by two representatives, never by one.

Germany refused to think more on the subject after denial couldn’t come with minor difficulties. The more he thought of the subject, he couldn’t keep denying. He focused on the work he had to finish for his boss, he had to, to remove those continual thoughts.

The overwhelming sense of guilt would otherwise be present. He didn’t want to feel guilty, not anymore. He wasn’t selfish or in denial, he just didn’t want to feel guilt anymore.

There was no doubt. 

——-

“ _ Németország _ , we need to talk!”

There was no mistaking who that loud voice belonged to: Hungary. They weren’t close, but their bosses had been. They had been in collaboration as of late, he would help her (loan money) and she would help him. They weren’t exactly friends, their relationship had been strictly work related, but he respected her and what she had to say. He couldn’t deny how happy his people had been with the Hungarian’s when engineering had been involved. 

He respected how she demanded respect without saying a single word to suggest it. He never said that, he never would, but he admired that trait and her work ethic matched his own, another favored trait. 

Although he respected this nation, there were moments that he found himself unable to answer to her. The moment he heard her at his door, was one of those moments. 

Her words rang loudly as she pounded against his door. It wasn’t a request, it had been a demand. A loud, anger filled demand that required immediate attention. While he normally found himself not minding her presence, he was ultimately hesitant to answer the door. 

That demand for respect became clear, the demand for answer, had been even more so. When she demanded her audience like a queen, she demanded it in such a way that hesitancy had been the only way. It was compounded by sheer wave after wave of pure anger, pouring out of the Hungarian with each pound. He didn’t need to hear it to feel the intensity of her anger. He didn’t want to be the one to answer that, he knew it wasn’t wise to, not if his brother’s distinct pan related scars were to be believed. 

“I know you’re in there  _ Németország _ , don’t you dare pretend otherwise!” He sighed, getting up from his seat at his study. He didn’t want to leave the safety of that study. Not when he was sure that, when he left, he would be given the full wrath of a pissed off Hungarian. He didn’t need to be an expert in psychology(which, he decidedly wasn’t, he was terrible at communicating with people outside of the work environment) to know the exact cause of her anger.

11 months, and finally more than just rumor had been known to the other nations outside the selected group of nations. The world was split and he had been thoroughly judged regardless of stance. He began making more and more denial attempts, using strong words to persuade those that remained silent on the matter to simply listen, but even so. He could see the eyes pound into his soul from those that crucified him for his actions.

While many nations were content to remain weary, some were quite vocal. So vocal, in fact, that he would worry himself over those encounters.He argued against those normally, but even he found himself unable to anymore. Not as easily able to deny those words, as though he found himself too tired to. He knew what side Hungary had been on the moment she started piecing information together. 

How could he deny that when she was one of the most vocal of nation? 

_ “Miss Hungary? I need help on these notes- I don’t understand them.”  _

_ “Ah, is Austria making you study again? Here, let me take a look. There, you missed a piece from this section. Does that help?” _

_ “Hmm, ja! Thank you, Miss Hungary!” _

Those memories, those words, flashed through his mind as he briefly paused before leaving the study, startling the Germanic nation thoroughly. He didn’t remember exactly where that came from, but it made his heart hurt to recall. He didn’t know her prior to World War 1 when he had been brought into the war. He had only been work related friends with the Hungarian, while respected, that didn’t make them close.

Why did it hurt to be the cause of her anger so much more than it did for anyone else? It was as if he had known her for longer than he had. Childhood memories were lost, however, he doubted he had seen her before. 

He didn’t believe in déjà vu and related past events of that nature. It was illogical to. 

“ _ Németország _ , if I have to break your door down, I will!”

Germany didn’t doubt her for a second, either.He shook off those thoughts, knowing it would distress him the more he thought of them. He removed himself from his study, his eyes glancing over to the clock that hung above the front door with anticipation. He knew that South Italy would be visiting shortly, 2 hours, give or take. It was wrong to think of the Southern Italian in such a light. He didn’t love him- he knew that perfectly well. While there were things he loved about the Southern Italian, he didn’t love him in that way. No, just like how Romano’s soul had been captured by the Spaniard, he was the same with North Italy. 

Everything about the North Italian, annoying tendencies and all, he deeply loved to no end. The fire that the man seemed to give off at every moment that engulfed the German when he was near, the beautiful olive skin that he found so attractive, those honey eyes that rarely opened, but when they did, it was special. The way he waited for him when he worked, sometimes going as far as to remind him to stop when he went to far..

His tendencies of messiness, even when messy from paints and the like, something made it look cute and purposefully done to the German. The way he laughed, the way he smiled, the way he called out his name, begging him for more when they were heated..

He needed him badly. He needed Italy badly, it didn’t matter if it had been Romano or not. There were disgusting things that he didn’t want to do to the North Italian, that the Southern would agree to, begging practically. He didn’t want to harm the Northern Italian. He didn’t. As time went on, those words were hard to repeat to himself, no matter how hard he tried. He didn’t want to..

He just didn’t. 

Neither asked for a motive from the other, but their names are never cried out when they were heated, never cried out. Not unless they done so purposefully, but during a heated moment, it never had been the case. They never had each other on their mind, because love between each other had been nonexistent. 

He could wait a little longer for that relief. He’s done so many times before, after all.

“ _ Warte einen moment _ , I’ll be there in a moment.”

_ “¡Hijo de puta!”  _ There stood one of the foulest speaking nations outside of Romano in a small, five foot tall feisty woman by the name of Mexico by Hungary’s side to greet him. Her curled black hair made into a messy bun. Her dress had been a colorful one, bright hues of red with a floral layered skirt, hampered only by the dirtiness of the dress- potentially from working. Her eyes were behind a pair of thin, black glasses. “You brotherfucker!”

He hadn’t expected Mexico’s involvement, although in hindsight he had. Spain and Mexico had reconciled several years ago after having a very strained relationship- if Germany could recall Italy’s blabbering. Italy was the first to happily exchange such information, not that the German particularly cared at the time. He hadn’t known her, and he didn’t work with her. Their history wasn’t his to explore.

He should have expected the loud mouthed Mexican to be involved if it had something to do with Spain. She was awfully protective of him in that regard, reminiscent of Belarus without the romantic undertones. 

He finally understood what made America so scared of the nation in question. As he processed the presence of the tiny woman, she yanked on his shirt, messing it up in the process to bring him eye to eye with her. 

“So you’re the  _ cabrona _ that’s been distressing  _ Gran Hermano España? _ ” Big, light brown eyes bore into him as she yelled at him. “You’re  _ Alemania _ , aren’t you?”

_ “Ja, _ that is-“

“Shut it!” Hungary watched, giggling as she done so, her pan nearly falling out of her hands when she did. “He’s a  _ jodido idiota esperanzado _ \- I can’t believe you decided to fuck with him! He can’t get anxious right now and that’s all he’s been doing, and I know it’s your fucking fault!”

Mexico’s glare softened when she looked around before igniting once more when she glared at the German.“Where is the other  _ cabrona _ ? Where is he?”

With little difficulty, he remembered that Italy also stated her dislike of Romano in particular, though she hadn’t liked either Italian. Something about Romano hoarding his attention when he was a colony. He didn’t look into that claim and Italy was oddly silent about his childhood.

He mentally recoiled. Hungary had her reasoning, he understood. Mexico, he hadn’t as easily. He had been judged by the Mexican through the lens of an angered sibling with a sketchy past with his romantic partners. He might not have the skills to read emotions, he knew the combination never led to anything good. 

“He’s not here,” Germany replied. He was grateful he wasn’t, knowing the Mexican’s intense dislike for the Southern Italian. If her anger was exacerbated by the German, it would be more so by the Italian. To leave had been preferred, however.“If that is your only complaint-“

He hadn’t been granted that out. 

“You know exactly why I’m here, you  _ malac _ !” Germany recoiled when the Hungarian spoke. “We found out through the grapevine. Austria and I had learned through Kazakhstan, Kazakhstan! I never wanted to smack someone as hard as I did him - that cocky ass!”

Hungary shook when she spoke, her green eyes locked in the Germanic nation as she brought up her pan. “Do you understand how..how horrible it is to hear that he is gone, to know that it had been you that kept him away?” She gripped the pan with a strength he didn’t see her use before. “Do you?”

Germany backed away from the Hungarian and the Mexican, both who inched closer when he had. 

“Look, I had been under strict orders. Formalities dictate that I had to wait. There weren’t better options available.”

“Formalities? Formalities?” The Hungarian repeated, bringing the pan up. He recoiled, she was just inches away from smacking him with the pan. She nearly screeched the last word. 

“We weren’t aware formalities included dicking around with your partner’s brother,” Mexico placed a hand on her shoulder. She scowled when she has done so.“..or are you referring to your lack of physical evidence? The ones you didn’t collect?” 

He eyed the pan wearily, fixates on it. He didn’t recoil or flinch as he drew near. It concerned him, but he didn’t want to Hungarian or the Mexican to see that concern. He knew the damage a single pan can cause.

Prussia had clearly been evident of that. 

“What goes on in my relationship with Italy is not of your concern.” He spoke formally.

“However, you’ve been misinformed-“

“What  _ mierda _ are you trying to spew now? Misinformation my ass!” Mexico laughed as if it had been the funniest thing she heard that day. “You don’t think I can track your phone calls? Your messages? You’re not very good at hiding your internet history or your phone history,  _ si _ . Overall, your history is as shady as fuck, just as you are.”

‘You’ve been hacking my phone-“

“That is beside the point, _bastardo_!”

“Your formalities are lies, I don’t care how much you spout that nonsense! We came for answers, not bullshit!” Hungary eyed her pan for a moment, her features softening. Green eyes glistened with forming tears that she directed towards the German. “You gave him hope all those years ago, centuries ago, even. You gave him drive, only to take it away. I don’t care if you remember, you did it regardless.”

Germany grew confused by the Hungarian’s words. He didn’t know the North Italian before World War 1. There were minor memories, however, dwelled and lingered in the back of his mind of a girl in a bright green dress. She held a push broom. 

He remembered feeling something towards the girl, but it felt more like a dream than a true memory. 

“...I met him in World War 1, I don’t recall meeting him prior.” Germany shook his head. He ignored the lingering memories. “My answer to your request remains the same. I know it’s callous, I’ve been made aware of that more times than I care to admit, but I don’t want him to be harmed more than he already is. It’s not my place to tell you. It’s Romano’s.” 

Germany looked away from the two briefly. It was the truth; it was one that he wanted to be brought to attention the most. The adamant refusal of the Southern Italian after his last recent attempt had made it apparent that he had to listen. They questioned his loyalty, but it was still towards the Northern Italian, knowing the fear that crossed the Southern Italian. “You will accuse me of being cruel, I know this, I understand that. I love him, but I can’t help him if it gets him hurt.”

Hungary paused, mulling those words. Her face softened when she talked for a moment. “You’re denying so much, it hurts to see it.”I understand! I do, even when I don’t want to, I understand your reasoning.” Her pan lowered a little, briefly before shooting up once more. Her face scrunched in disgust momentarily. “You did more than just nothing, I wish I could make you understand that your denial isn’t healthy. You..actively harmed the chances of finding him. Doing something, anything, I understand if you must stall. I hate that I agree that running blind would be more damaging! I hate that I must even consider that right, every fiber of my being hates that your right, but you did  _ absolutely nothing. _ ”

Hungary pointed the pan at him again, threateningly. “You did _absolutely positively nothing_. _You don’t even have samples._ Samples, at the very least, that _could’ve been counted as something. You don’t even have that._ **That** is unforgivable to me. Did you not think that?”

He saw her eyes shimmer with new tears forming. She hardly ever cried. He hardly ever saw her cry.He made her cry, and no matter how hard he tried to deny what it made him feel, it didn’t work.

He felt guilt rise, tempered down by his own will. He didn’t want her to see that guilt. He tried to not feel the guilt. He didn’t know how much there was, guilt, but he wasn’t sure if he could soothe it if it was released. It was those memories mixed with his own guilt that worsened those emotions.

She got close to him, eye level to the German as she yelled, nearly wailing even. Her eyes filling with tears by the time she spoke. 

“...I've raised that nation you abandoned since he was a little child! He is my son,  _ Németország _ , my son! You abandoned my son to rot! You can’t fix that, you don’t have the ability to. You made sure that my son wouldn’t be found. That is  _ beyond unforgivable _ !“

“ _ Es tut mir Leid.. _ ”Germany couldn't piece what should be said. He didn’t know what he could say to resolve her plight. “..I didn’t do it for a reason. I’m sorry that the reason isn’t satisfactory.” 

Although guilt lingered, he couldn’t let his guilt persuade him into showing them that he couldn’t deny it. He would deny it to them, even if he started to see that it wasn’t deniable. He wasn’t a selfish or a denialist. He wasn’t, he knew that. 

He started doubting that himself, regardless. 

Germany, however, relents a little. Not by much, he didn’t start doubting himself. That hadn’t been the cause of his relent. The Mexican must have known something regardless. It wasn’t relenting if she did. “Italy Romano is currently working on something that I needed to stall for. I can’t say much, but I had to stall. For Italy’s sake.” He frowned. “That is all I can say on the matter. Is that suffice?”

Hungary wiped her eyes, sniffling when she done so before she eyed the German. She didn’t speak, but he could see her surprise by the words. She glanced at Mexico for clarification.

The doubt in her eyes stung, but he was used to that doubt. 

“Collaborations and negotiations.” Mexico hummed, amused. She had been waiting for him to say that, he frowned at the acknowledgment. She knew something, her amusement was never good.That was never good when it was directed at the German.. 

The Mexican shrugged, a glare forming once more, returning from prior. “You’re answer doesn’t satisfy me, not one bit. You didn’t answer for Romano. I’m sure my..friend agrees with that.” She looked towards Hungary and nods. “I don’t care about Italy at the moment because he managed to fucking leave the situation- now, don’t get me wrong.( You’re a dumbass, I don’t fucking mean it in that way.) He left the moment he disappeared. Harmed or not, he’s not around you anymore _ . Gran Hermano España?  _ My brother can’t leave and its crushing him to watch his dear  _ 'amor’ _ leave his side to yours. Its hurting him, and its sickening to me. I’m getting sick and tired of watching you and the  _ cabrona _ break his soul like its nothing, then return like nothing happened!” 

She jabbed the German with her fingers. Her glare increasing as the Hungarian’s eyes widened with each word spoken. 

“You and that  _ cabrona _ do whatever you want to do, but do it by yourselves! I read what was said between you and that  _ cabrona _ \- I even read what you sent to that other dumbass- Italy. I don’t like him or his brother, not by much, but what you say to him through messages?” She began to shout when she spoke. “What the  _ mierda absoluta _ were you thinking? Who says that shit to him?”

“My relationship with Italy doesn’t involve you. You are wrongly misinterpreting my words. They’re out of context-” Germany repeated. The Mexican didn’t relent. 

“Wow, more  _ mierda _ !” Mexico laughed, startling the German. “Calling someone useless in the ways you say it- let me give you a hint you dumbass, don’t require fucking context. Hungary, you knew this dumbfuck, please tell me that he’s not this stupid.”

Hungary eyed the German, doubt lacing her features when she did. It was as if she couldn’t decide, even though she held that pan even tighter than before. “You never hurt him..right?”

“We’d have arguments, words were said, but they’re-“

“..you did, didn’t you? Stop..stop beating around the bush. You said those things that Prussia told me you did, didn’t you?”

Germany’s surprise only worsened the situation. It gave it merit for the Hungarian. It was as though the fire reignited in the Hungarian, wiping her tears away, she was about to strike with the pan, but she was stopped by the Mexican. 

“ _ Espana _ cries, you know. “ Mexico tightened her hold on the Hungarian, her light brown eyes examining the German’s face for everything and anything. Her words were carefully crafted, full of intensity with each word spoken. “He cries a lot at night- Romano ditches him in the middle of the night. I’ve had to watch him deteriorate,  _ Alemania _ . It’s..scary to see how depressed he is. He's not even excited for his boys as much as he used to be. I'm afraid he might get post-partum at this rate. That ignores what he says about his body,  _ Alemania _ . I don’t know what you two said to him, what you made him do or feel, but it’s eating him. I hate how I can’t help him get better, that  _ all I can do is just watch him get worse. _ You don’t see that either, you don’t understand that, do you?”

“We wanted to know what you thought- Hungary did, at least. She thought to give you a chance still. I don’t believe in that  _ mierda _ . Personally, I came to warn you. It would be rude not to,  _ si _ ? I don’t want you harming  _ Espana _ , you understand?  _ Tell that to that bastardo, too.  _ However, it sounds like your still not understanding shit.”

“It doesn’t sound like it.” Germany heavily frowned. He was done with the conversation. They wouldn’t stop hounding him and clearly, nothing he said would matter. Although he denied so much, he didn’t deny the futility of the situation he was placed in. “You passed judgement on me already. You are looking for a fight,  _ I will not give you one.  _ “

“You bastard-“ Hungary stopped mid sentence when Mexico began to speak. She turned to leave, waiting until the Mexican to finish before she did. 

“You’re in deep shit,  _ Alemania _ . Your precious South Italy is a bullshitter, just like you. Or is it denial? Either way, South Italy’s collaborations and negotiations will drag you and everyone you associated with, down with him. I give zero fucks for your well being, but I love Spain. I will not let you drag him and his children down.”

Germany stopped, looking back at the feisty Mexican. She wore a smile so dark and wide that it frightened the Germanic nation visibly. Hungary shared a glance with both nations before she returned to the Mexican’s side. 

“What did you say?”

Mexico waved him off, the smile growing wider. “Oh, don’t worry about that, you’ll understand soon enough. I gotta say, I’m not particularly fond of Italy, my history in relation to  _ Espana _ made that impossible, but the poor bastard can’t escape the fallout, even if he doesn’t know it’s happening. It’s sad to be  _ subastado como un esclavo _ ,  _ si _ .” She gestured to the Hungarian who wore a confused expression. With a whisper, he watched it click in her. 

What she knew, he didn’t know.

“ _ Adios. cabrona! _ ”

Germany didn't have time to process the words the Mexican had left him with. Those unprocessed words would have created questions, each new question having another question intertwined without an answer to go with it. 

If he had time to process those words, he would have found the ability to deny the possibility of those accusations being false difficult.

Germany, however, didn't as he slunk back into his home, closing the door behind him. He couldn't, not when he heard the phone ringing, begging for attention. At first, he thought of it as a needed distraction. A distraction to delay the processing of those thoughts.

If Germany had foresight, he would have retracted that thought automatically, but he didn't have foresight. Although he didn't process those cursed words, he could feel the emotions brewing as though he did. He wasn't an emotional man by any stretch, but for a moment, it felt like he would have been.

Every emotion he felt charged inside him at once, competing for attention. Guilt being so prominent among those emotions that he couldn't even find himself surprised anymore. 

Was that how Italy felt? Did he make Italy feel that way?

He didn't think, couldn't as he reached to answer the phone. If he had processed information, he would've noticed the caller ID.

_ "Hallo, _ this is Ludwig Beilschmidt speaking."

If he had, he would've been fully aware of the person on the other end of the phone being Ivan Braginsky, the Russian nation. 

He hadn't, he had, instead, answered the phone. The phone call only made the act of processing worse as he swore he heard the melodic voice that he fell in love ringing in the background as the Russian answered. As the phone call had begun to taper down, the Russian extended an invitation for the following week. Polite despite dislike, he accepted. 

The German was a proud nation, a proud, stubborn, man. However, even stubbornness and pride can crack when under certain pressure. Denial, too, could crack and start to shatter under pressure like fine porcelain. If only he didn’t accept the Russian’s invitation, if only he had listened to those words the Mexican left behind for the German.

He reached his limit the moment he visited the Russian. He knew he was trapped, and even as trapped as he was, he tried to deny it, even through emotions he hadn’t thought existed in him in such a long time. Those very emotions that for ace him from truly denying the actions and inactions. It broke pieces of his soul, but even still, he doubled down his denial to remove that distraught. 

Was that what it felt like to be broken? 

He wanted his Italy back. He wanted Luise. He wanted them back with him, just wanted his family back. His denial had been faltered, and selfishness being seen by the light after he tried casting it away into the recesses of his mind.

Why couldn't anyone understand that? Was he truly wrong for doing what he had done?

——-

Another meeting had been scheduled, he knew this as he drove to Rome. He knew because the Russian nation had ‘graciously’ informed him of the meeting that would be held. There hadn’t been a meeting otherwise scheduled, not until the Russian (and consequently, the Southern Italian) had scheduled for one. Due to the nature of the subject, the meeting had been decided to be held in Rome, Italy. 

The collaborations, the negations, they were to be announced during that meeting. Everything would be laid out to the rest of the G8 and a few select nations outside of it. He had a semblance of an idea what the collaboration had been about- each thought making his stomach fall when he thought of it. He had a feeling because of that ‘generous’ Russian and the ‘sweet’ Mexican. 

He had a distinct feeling what the negotiations were about from the both of them, and he was sure he was backed into a corner that he couldn’t escape from, as much as he tried to deny it. He couldn’t remove the notion from his thoughts, it kept crawling into his very thoughts. He slain those thoughts, only for them to return like a hydra. For once, the meetings gave him more than just a headache. It gave a strange sense of dread that coursed through with each thought of it. 

For once, he wanted to be optimistic, he didn’t want to be right. After the phone call with the Russian, he had been tasked to visit him as well. It’s what prompted him to visit the Southern Italian the day before the meeting, in fact. 

There were words he wanted to say to the Southern Italian so boldly, but then..he couldn’t speak those words. He wanted to deny those words just as much as he wanted to deny what he had to bear witness to. 

He couldn’t, realistically, do so. That’s what his thoughts insisted; they called him blind as the Spaniard, selfish and cruel. He killed those thoughts that were hydras. He had to, it made his emotions run rampant.It made him feel emotions he tried his damndest to suppress. 

He needed the one person that made those very feelings disappear, even so briefly, even if it was so very selfish of him. (To wish he denied that it was selfish, consequently if one dared to ask.)Romano was a comfort, a stress relieving nation to the German. It was wrong, he hadn’t denied that anymore, to use the nation as a proxy. It was wrong on many levels that, to others, he would deny in order to not be reminded of what he hadn’t had anymore. 

He looked like Italy, so much like him, that all it took was an image and it wasn’t like he was gone anymore. There were things to the Northern Italian he wanted to say or do, and when he done them with the Southern Italian, it was acceptable, happily taken.

In a way, it made it nearly Italy’s fault. He couldn’t deny that he wanted it to be his, even though he had known it truly hadn’t been. The Southern Italian never faltered in this regard, either. Romano didn’t care that there were hints of distrust and anger within those words spoken to him, and that had been a major appeal for the German.

He wasn’t like Italy in that regard. 

Germany parked his car in the Southern Italian’s home, eyeing around to see if there had been another. Spain wasn’t there, with a sigh of relief, he allowed himself in, knowing the Italian would be delighted to see him. 

He needed him, he needed Italy, and it didn’t matter if he had to drive to Rome to satisfy that, nor did it matter that the meeting had been the next day. He needed to remove such utter feelings, the stress, and everything that cling to him since he visited the Russian. 

He needed something to remove those wrong thoughts that he’d encountered during the visit, those disgusting images that he found himself fully understanding the context of finally. No matter how hard he tried, reality set in. 

That’s why he turned to Romano. He could satisfy the desire to remove the feelings, the very emotions he didn’t fully comprehend, onto him without restraint. He needed it, he couldn’t run regardless of how hard he tried. 

He found himself committing to the same actions he had before; he had been in bed with the Southern Italian, their clothes nearly entirely removed as Romano pushed himself on him. A brush against his legs, slowly crawling upwards with a tug on the oddly placed curl nearly made the Italian crumble. Almost. A wicked smile crossed the German’s features- he liked to watch the proud Italian crumble into a blushing mess. He loved making him squirm and beg until he did. 

It had been a game of sorts, making the Southern Italian cry out, blush, and absolutely beg for the German’s relief. No matter how he felt, he couldn’t deny how fun the game was, how he continually found delight in his actions. His fingers graced the odd curl a little more roughly, watching as the Southern Italian shuddered and sputtered. 

He couldn’t help but think of Italy; despite the angered expression, he looked much like him, enough so that it made the game even more exciting to play. 

The more he thought of him like that and less like the newly formed images of him, the more he found himself wanting the other. 

“S-Stop t-teasing me- G-Germany!" The German smirked as he placed a kiss against his cheek, causing the blush to brighten. 

" _ Nein _ . It doesn't look like you want me enough. Don't you want it?" He whispered, false disappointment lacing his words. The Southern Italian shivered with each word, climbing on him. The German didn't relent, curling the curl in his fingers. The Southern Italian cried out with each tug. The German could feel the Italian grinding against him in an effort to relieve the building stress as he touched every bit of the German's body.

Humiliation, domination, some physically violent sexual acts and everything between those things, had always been fair game. Although the North Italian knew of such desires, he didn't know just how far he would go to reach them. 

He didn't know how much he wanted to do those actions on him, so much so that seeing the submissive Romano reminding him so much so of his brother, that he could easily hear the Italy's voice coming out of Romano's, ignoring the curses that he spewed.

_ Italy momentarily replaced Romano, he could hear that melodic voice once more that he came to love cry out with each tug, his olive cheek's brightening as he 'fought' to ignore the sensations of each tug, but ultimately couldn't.He had leaned onto the German in such a manner that he could feel the excitement coming across the Northern Italian.  _

_ "D-Doitsu, I..I can't- P-Per favore!" That voice begged, pleading. With each beg, he could smell the faint scent of tomato that always seemed to linger. He could nearly feel those delicate hands work their magic on him. He very nearly fell to their spell, he hated to admit. "I..I need you, Lu-Ludwig!" _

Not that the Southern Italian minded. 

"I-I do, I-I need it, y-you  _ tomato bastard _ !!" 

He constantly called him Spain's names, after all. He wasn’t Spain as much as Romano wasn’t Italy.

"Prove it,  _ du hure _ !”

He didn't want to hurt the Northern half, after all. He didn't know if he could've handled such activities, he didn't want to test that even though just imagining him doing those actions created an ecstasy. No, he didn’t want to hurt, even though he grew to become unable to deny that his actions continued to harm him. 

He was a stubborn, prideful, nation. Although denying had grown to become near impossible, he needed to indulge. He wasn’t Italy, but he wasn’t Spain, either. For the time being, who the other was, didn’t matter. With each curse and hate filled word spewed from the German’s mouth, the Southern Italian complied and the heated session became more and more. Each rough kiss, tug, moan, and beg, none of the experiences they had dealt with so far had mattered anymore. None of those meetings mattered nor the outcomes from them matter for brief moments..

None of the stresses mattered, for the moment, they had their significant other in their arms regardless of how real the other was. They continued until they simply couldn’t no more, when the true reality had sunk in. 

That way, by the time that they realized the gravity of the situation, they couldn’t help but to still stay. Either way, relief would have been satisfied for the time being.

They fell asleep soon after, the Southern Italian sleeping somewhat peacefully in the German’s arms. They would have stayed that way until they lead to depart- the Southern Italian meeting the Spaniard the very morning of the meeting. It was the Southern’s very insistence that he had; although he was weak, he was increasingly protective of his husband. As the due date was near and with the stressful meeting to be held, he was more so than before. 

Those were the plans.

_ “Que diablos?!” _

They didn’t expect the Spaniard and his little sister finding them first. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “¡Hijo de puta! (You fucker!)  
Warte einen moment (Hold on a moment)  
Cabrona (fucker)  
Gran Hermano España?”(Big Brother Spain)  
Alemania (Germany)  
Malac (pig)  
jodido idiota esperanzado (fucking hopeful dumbass)  
mierda (Bullshit)  
Bastardo (bastardo)  
Es tut mir Leid (I’m sorry)  
Amor (love)  
mierda absoluta (absolute fuck)  
du hure (You whore)  
Németország (Germany)  
Que diablos (What the hell?!)  
jenseits der Scheiße (beyond shitty)  
egoistischer Dummkopf (selfish fool!)

**Author's Note:**

> Italie (Italy)  
s'il vous plaît.. (Please)  
perché sono qui? (Why am I here?)  
Che Cosa? (What?)  
Sozhaleyu (Sorry)  
Moya Italiya (My Italy)  
Germaniya (Germany)  
Mi dispiace! (I'm sorry!)  
..perché..(Why?)  
Sono stanco di difenderti! (I'm tired of defending you!)  
Sono stanco di entrambe le tue bugie! (I'm tired of both of your lies!)  
Sono stanco di provare ad essere gentile con te! (I'm tired of trying to be nice to you!)  
Sono stanco di te! (I'm tired of you!)  
Mne zhal' (I'm sorry)  
sestry (Sisters)  
YA lyublyu tebya (I love you)  
Auf Wiedersehen (Goodbye for now)


End file.
